


Hungry for Release

by Pantouffle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Eating Disorder, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pantouffle/pseuds/Pantouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a quick fix diet for an insecure Zayn Malik soon spirals out of control. Although Niall, Louis, Harry, and Liam are all on his side, will he be able to find it in himself to defeat the anorexic monster facing him in the mirror? (WARNING: potentially triggering!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black coffee

At the time, it had felt like a metal door coming down in his mind, sectioning off the wilful, impulse side of his nature, and letting the determined, focused part take full control. A klaxon had sounded, and something impossibly strong had rolled down into place. When he thought about it though, in retrospect, the barriers had been building for some time. 

That first day though, all he knew was this. One morning, as he had innumerable times before, he went down to the hotel breakfast buffet and surveyed the standard spread - much like any he'd face on any day of the tour - and everything had changed. 

On autopilot, he went to fill a bowl with Coco Pops, sleepily fumbling as he grabbed it from the pile. Unexpectedly, he felt himself freezing mid-pour, and emptying the chocolate puffs back into the container. 

Forget it, his brain buzzed. Too much sugar. Think of your flabby stomach. Think of your blotchy skin. He nodded, and looked towards the eggs. Protein is good, right? But when he went to serve himself, once again, something jolted him to a stop. All he could see was oil, sweating off the egg whites, and oozing on to the surface off the pan. Nope, nope, nope. 

Bread. Bread was low fat right? On offer were croissants, thick slabs of white toast, and a bright array of fruit muffins. Hold on a minute though, those portion size were ridiculous. Almost three times the size of what you'd get in the UK, and even the British media was full of stories out of control pastry size and the supposed sinister effects of carbs. 

His stomach growled. As intimidating these options were, it was six am, and he had three big interviews alone scheduled in before noon, to be followed by a long afternoon of rehearsals, and, finally, a concert. There was no way he'd manage all that with no fuel inside him. 

A hearty hand clap to the back shook him out of his torpor. "'Alright, Zayn?" Liam drawled in his sing-song Wolverhampton accent, "You clearly need a coffee - you look like you're in a trance. What do you want?" He asked, gesturing towards a gleaming, a very space age looking machine. 

"Ah - ha ha, yeah, right. Espresso me up, Payne," Zayn ordered. While his band mate's back was turned, he dived into a silver tureen full of, mostly untouched, low-fat yogurts - hardly surprising, considering the vast array of treats on offer - and furtively scanned the calorie count of the first one that came to hand. It might be full of sugar, but at least it was a safe, manageable portion.

He turned around and headed over to Liam, grabbing a banana at the last minute. As usual, Liam was already tucking into one of his token ham and bacon sandwiches, pausing between bites to scan the latest football results on his phone. "Thanks man," Zayn muttered, cringing at the bitterness of the strong coffee. 

"Not to your taste? It's a wee bit more intense than your usual latte milkshake," he laughed. Zayn smiled. "Yeah, but I've decided to cultivate an air of mystery. From now on, I'm only going to wear black, drink nothing but black drinks..."

"So coffee, black Russians, Cola, and Guinness?" Liam asked.

"Right!" Zayn nodded enthusiastically. "I'll dress solely in ruffled shirts, a magnificent sweeping cape, and elegant velvet trousers. Just need to think up a fiendishly tricky code to write my Tweets in, and I'll be in business." 

"Sounds splendid. I'm off for my wardrobe fitting now, so I'll alert them to your dramatic new fashion direction. Ta ra! Liam fastidiously folded his napkin and deposited it in the cup, and trotted out.

"Cheers dude." Zayn waved him away, and took one last dreg at the now lukewarm espresso. Shit. He'd forgotten about the fitting. He'd just about recovered from last month. Out of the three pairs of jeans that had laid out for him, he'd just about been able to get one over his hips - and that was after a good few minutes of shimmying and jostling, praying for the zip to just reach the top. 

It enough of an indignity to be pricked, poked and squeezed at general photoshoots, but when the Henrie, the by now very irritated stylist pulled the measuring tape tight around his midriff and yelled out to his minions that absolutely everything in Zayn's wardrobe was going to have to be taken up by at least an inch, he wanted to disappear. A uncomfortable quiet descended on the room, broken only by curt instructions for the necessary adjustments from Henrie, who didn't even bother to ask Zayn for his input. As though he wasn't even there. As though he was some idiot shop dummy or deliberately awkward child. 

All Zayn could focus on was that measuring tape, and the rolls of fat that bulged around it as it was pulled tight around different sections of his body. His disgusting, expanding, undisciplined body. How has this happened? He didn't remember overeating particularly in the past month. If anything, with all the running around on stage, endless international flights, and insane PR roundabout they'd been on, he'd barely had time to snatch a hot meal. 

But clearly something had gone wrong. He hadn't noticed his jeans becoming that much tighter, but then again, he'd been pulling on tracksuit trousers most days and rolling straight into waiting cars. Maybe he'd got sloppy. Perhaps he'd been hitting the post-gig pizza and beer table a little harder than he'd thought. He'd show them though. Next fitting, he'd take those new larger jeans and shove them in that snarky git Henrie's face. 

Finally, it was over, and a shamefaced Zayn was dismissed with a curt nod and command to return the next day to try on the unwanted new outfits. That night, he, Harry and Niall had jacked back a couple of six packs. Although Zayn had meant to abstain, the others were feeling boisterous. Harry had some steam to vent having faced yet another tabloid storm concerning himself and a certain pouty young lady, and Niall was smarting after his latest conquest had failed to respond to any of his texts that week. AWOL, presumed uninterested. 

At around eleven, having consumed around four or five tins each on empty stomachs, the boys indulged in an exceedingly large amount of Chinese food, and some better best forgotten renditions of Queen. Although Harry's text the following morning, which read, "Cheers for helping to take my mind of things bro. Really appreciate it. x" brought a temporary smile to his face, any residual happy thoughts slipped away as his swollen stomach dragged his mind back to the present. 

Zayn's head ached, his mouth felt like something had crawled in there and died quite some time ago, and his gut felt swollen and uncomfortable. Dragging himself out of bed, he hauled himself to stare into the full length hotel mirror. Two sleepy brown eyes stared back at him. Were those wrinkles? And were those purple blotches usually so pronounced? His jaw was so soft and spongy. He grabbed his chin and squeezed, watching contemplatively as a double chin rolled between his fingers. Were his cheeks always that puffy? It was like there were no definition at all - just an immense, flabby face, with two crinkled, beady eyes. 

It was too much. He couldn't even face looking at his disgusting, porky, bloated belly. Hurriedly, he pulled on the nearest pair of sweatpants to hand (were they this tight before?), and sifted through a pile of discarded T-shirts to find the one which was least likely to draw attention to his body. Even with the baggiest black top, Zayn was uncomfortably aware of how tight the sleeves pulled against his arms, which today, to him, resembled juicy, rounded hams. 

He threw himself on the bed. All he wanted to do was grab the flesh and pull it away. At that moment, it was as though he was literally drowning in fat. He wasn't sure how long he lay there for, but an insistent pounding at the door dragged him back into the present.  
"Who is it?" He yelled. 

"Harry, you lazy git. Get up, me and Niall got McDonald's, and it's getting cold."  
Zayn rolled his eyes, and lumbered over to let his friends in. As he opened the door, he was hit by the comforting waft of warm, fried food. Although he'd vowed to give this sort of thing up, he'd already messed up last night. And, the state he was in, a hit of grease was probably the only thing that would allow him to make it through the day. 

"Ta guys. Get in!" He blustered, all the time cursing himself for being so bloody weak.  
That had been thirty days ago, and, until now, dieting attempts had remained strictly abortive. Today was different though. A strange, nervous energy had seized him, and, at last, and he couldn't explain why, things were going to be different. 

Unfortunately, none of this changed the fact that, according to Google calender, there was another torture by Henerie pencilled in for ten minutes time. 

With sweaty palms and bile rising up in hs throat, Zayn shuffled dutifully to Henrie's suite, which now resembled an extremely up market bazaar, with designer sports trousers intertwining with designer suits, silky scarves (no doubt intended for Harry), and a veritable pick and mix of shoes strewn across the floor. He caught a glimpse of perfectly chiseled, taut stomach as Liam, who was stood in the centre of it all, yanked his shirt on. 

"Come, come, Big Boy," Henrie called, noticing Zayn hovering unhappily in the doorway. His irritation at the slight must have flickered across his face, as Liam made a point of giving him a friendly punch on his shoulder as he strode out of the room. 

Mercifully, this month's outfits all did up on first try. But then, Zayn thought to himself ruefully, they were all at least an inch larger than before. Even still, his stomach formed a small pooch over the waistband of every pair of trousers - not huge, but enough that he was forced to ruck up his boxers and suck in his stomach before submitting himself to the stylist's beady glare. 

"Eh, good enough. You boys and your junk food." He sneered. "I do my best, anyway. You can go." Zayn couldn't get out of there fast enough - unfortunately, he wasn't quite speedy enough to avoid Henrie's jubilant, "Hey handsome!" as Harry bounced into the suite, which only served to heighten how awful he felt. 

By the time everyone's fittings were done, the boys were already ten minutes behind schedule. Tension was running high when lunch rolled around, and, as nobody had the energy to vetoe Niall, it ended up being burritos, for the third time that week. "I'll have the vegetarian with extra salsa please, with double jalapeños, and no rice, beans, or cheese, guacamole or sour cream," he told the bemused looking server, figuring that the double spice hit would cancel out the total lack of other flavours. 

Even still, the wrap felt awfully heavy in his hands once it was handed to him. Zayn resolved to eat a minimal dinner to balance it all out. He'd been doing some reading between appointments, and initially, figured he needed to stick to around 1500 calories or less a day, maximum, to lose the extra pounds. 

That still seemed like quite a lot though. After all, he did seem to gain weight far faster than the other boys, from what he could tell. With a high profile GQ photoshoot coming up in six weeks, there was hardly any time to work his way down to anywhere near the angular perfection such sleek publications demanded. 1200 calories seemed much more reasonable, and, frankly, less intimidating, when he really thought about it.

Buoyed by the visions of narrow hips and a sexy jawline, Zayn powered through the rest of the day on black coffee, fruit, and a forlorn packet of rice cakes he'd found languishing at the back of the catering table that evening. 

Lying in his hotel bed that night, he gently palpitated the soft flesh on his hips and stomach. Every angle he lay in just seemed to emphasise the way his body sagged and wobbled - but, he told himself, this would be the fattest he'd ever be. From today, every night he'd go to sleep that bit thinner, until nobody would dare to make him feel like crap. After an hour or so, exhaustion from the concert won out over the protests of his empty stomach. As sleep stole him away, his last conscious thoughts were 'better tomorrow...better tomorrow...'


	2. Video nasties

Somewhere, a clock was ticking. One of those sharp, insistent ticks that puts you on edge. Zayn's foot bounced rhythmically, keeping time with the second hand. He wasn't really conscious of it, until Liam's warm, steady hand descended on his knee, freezing his leg.

"Anxious are we? C'mon man, you're making the whole sofa shake," he chuckled.

"Oops, sorry guys. Shouldn't have downed that last Monster I guess!" Zayn laughed. Now that his leg was pinned by Liam, he felt his hand starting to click and twitch reflexively as his wired nervous system tried to ease out the extra energy. It was to be expected, he supposed, when you replaced all your meals with caffeine.

The last week had been pretty good - until last night, that is. Zayn had religiously logged his calories on his iPad, and, although he hadn't gotten round to buying any scales, he felt confident that at least he wasn't gaining. Yesterday though, on top of being chaotic as ever, was capped off with a late night recording session. 

As he waited for his turn, Zayn had felt his focus drift. His part that evening was incredibly technically complex, and even on a good day, was a challenge to deliver. Never mind one where all he'd had to eat was a few yoghurts and oat cakes. Right at that moment, he'd have struggled to remember a nursery rhyme, let alone a professional vocal technique.

Looking for an emergency energy rush, he'd shoved a handful of M&M's in his mouth. Then a bagel, washed down with a sickly sweet mocha. Although his solo was judged "Good enough" in the end, he'd climbed into bed that night with a churning gut, racing heart, and bitter feeling of disappointment.

The next morning, a familiar feeling of self-loathing greeted him as he hitched his jogging bottoms over his bloated stomach. Today, he thought, no food at all. Not even a milky coffee. Punishment settled upon, Zayn headed downstairs to meet the boys, using the time he would have spent at breakfast to greet some fans who were lingering in the lobby. 

Chatting to the excitable young mob, he felt his spirits lift a little, even though he could see the ones at the back on their tiptoes were gazing around him - obviously hoping his better looking band mates were following behind. Still, he thought, even if I'm nobody's favourite, at least I'm trying. By the time they had all trundled into the waiting car, he felt, if not entirely better, at least a little calmer. 

It was only a temporary respite though. When the timid intern tottered into the studio that evening, large bowl of fluffy marshmallows in hand, he knew if was a bad sign. He'd strategically positioned himself at the back of the group, hoping to get by with a few well-timed laughs and light non-answers. Anything to get the spotlight away from him and his sallow, chubby looking face.

Zayn had always heard that the camera adds ten pounds - but it wasn't until he'd actually forced himself to watch endless YouTube video interviews of himself, muted, in the back of the tour bus, that he'd understood the full ramifications of the sentiment. In fact, he'd created a secret account just to stash all the very worst ones for motivation. Every roll, every dimple, every flaw, caught on camera. There was one in particular where, thanks to a particularly ill advised shirt, the seams were actually gaping wide open. He'd watched that one again this morning in bed, shuddering in disgust at himself.

At least he'd been allowed to cover up in a baggy hip-hip style T-shirt today - though he discretely wrapped his arms around his stomach as the cameras began to roll - just in case. The perky-to-the-point-of -manic interviewer rattled off a few standard questions, to which the boys gamely bandied back a few perfunctionary, child-friend, PR team polished repiles. And then, it was time for some 'wacky' fun.

"Right lads - we know you love a challenge!" She shrieked, jumping up to grab the marshmallows. Up close, the interviewer was horribly scrawny - wizened, you might say, and under the layers of make up and fake tan, there was a visible array of pimples. That didn't make Zayn feel any better as she began urging the boys to grab handfulls of the candy, proferring them to him with twig like wrists, and wrattling the bowl impatiently to urge him to take more.

"OK, I'm going to count to three, ten we're going to play Fluffy Bunnies!" At this point, she was almost hyperventilaing with excitement.

"Oh god" giggled Niall. "I better not end up spitting on live TV!"

"Never mind that mate, you get any on me, you're cleaning it up!" Louis interjected, his delicate pixie like features lit up with glee at the chance to act like a kid.

"Three....two....one! GO!"

Zayn sighed inwardly. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was be watched eating - and even worse - in front of millions of viewers - and something crammed with sugar at that. As though he didn't look like a pig all the time anyway. Realising that the other boys were gamely cramming their mouths while he sat there like an idiot, he gingerly popped two marshmallows into his own, before hitting on an idea. 

Mustering all his willpower, he shoved his entire mouthfall in at once, and, through the oozing pink gloop, crowed "FLUFFAH BUNNIES!" Before promptly pretending to dissolve into giggles as he spat the entire mess into his palm. Seconds later, the intern rushed in with tissues for him to discretely get rid of the disgusting goo before horrified viewers started ringing in. 

"BAH" Groaned Harry, good naturedly, chewing his own sweets away. "Trust fatty over there to get them all in first."

"Sore loser mate!" Zayn bantered back, hoping his face didn't betray that fact that he was inwardly crumbling at the throwaway remark.

That night, alone in the safety of his hotel room, the tears came as he replayed the interview back, wincing each time his saggy arms came into shot, and the way a small double chin appeared whenever he looked down. That one was going to the top of his watch list. 

He pointedly ignored his phone as it buzzed urgently on the the dresser. It'd just be one of the band, trying to get him to come out to dinner. It was fine for them - there's no way they'd undertand why he couldn't. For god's sake, what normal bloke his age worried about calories? Or worse, they'd agree, and, as bad as it was in his head, if anyone who's opinion he actually cared about affirmed his doubts, it would be more than he could bear tonight.

Whilst everyone gathered in the bar, ready to toast to the end of a long couple of days of work, Zayn sat alone in a room lit only by the glow of a laptop screen, replaying it all over and over again.


	3. Cornered

3am. And he still couldn't sleep. Even though he'd been exhausted all day. Even though he'd only managed to get through two Breaking Bad episodes with Liam before he'd decided to call it a night - about three less than usual, considering how addicted the pair were to the show.

He'd had a few sharp stomach pains earlier, but nothing really awful. Nothing that he wasn't used to. Besides, that dull, constant ache was almost a companion these days. A reminder of how far he'd come over the past three months, and a sign that he was doing something right. Unfortunately, the insomnia that had arrived hand in hand with the hunger was a far less pleasant guest.

Every night the same. Zayn would sink gratefully into his bed - only to find himself still tossing and turning, getting increasingly wound up as the deep sleep he so craved refused to take hold.

At first he'd tried to use the time effectively, engaging in some Twitter sprees and answering fan questions. That soon backfired though, and, along with some snarky comments about the least popular Directioner getting desperate for a share of attention, there was a spike in all other abuse too.

Fat bastard. Talentless idiot. Racist taunts that sent his heart hammering in fury - things he knew he could have the bullies convicted for if he wanted - but that would only generate more attention, exhausting hours of explanations, and, worst of all, sympathy from the boys. Heartfelt, genuine, and guaranteed to make him feel about two foot tall.

So he simply logged off, deleted the app, and took to obsessively stalking Pintrest and Tumblr for health and fitness inspiration instead, even though the bulk of the recipes looked far too calorific for him to contemplate actually incorporating into his steadily shrinking range of 'safe' daily foods.

He was just loading up his favourite page on his iPad when a loud 'WHAMP', followed by a giggle and, what sounded very much like a five foot eleven lad drunkenly stumbling over his oversized Converse interuppted his thoughts. Zayn sighed, and headed to open the door. 

"Hello, Harry," he grinned, taking in his utterly inebriated, bushy haired friend. "You're back early!"

"Yeah, I missssed you!" He chuckled, drawing out the phrase as he lunged forward to wrap his arms around Zayn.

"Quiet you berk, you're gonna wake the whole floor and get us in shit" Zayn hissed, ushering Harry into his room. Experience had taught him that when the youngest band member got in this state, his homesickness usually came to the fore. The best thing to do was to keep him company and try to calm him down until he fell asleep.

Considering that Harry was currently sloppily bouncing on the bed like a down-and-out Tigger, it looked like that point might be some way off. Frankly though, Zayn was more than happy to have a distraction. Even a manic, slurring one.

"Sit down Harry. Have you eaten? I'll get you some toast or something. I'm definitely not giving you any coffee though."

"THANKS THANKS THANKS!" Harry bellowed, stumbling as he dismounted from the mattress, apparently tiring of that particular game. "LET'S WATCH SOME..."

"Shhhhh..." Zayn cautioned.

"SORRY! Let's watch some tele." he continued, speaking this time in a comical stage whisper. Zayn shrugged, figuring that, if it worked to shut up his little sister, it might help keep the man-boy quiet too. Surely enough, thirty minutes into a late night Will Ferrell marathon, he was lying on one side of the bed, a happy but slightly glazed expression on his face. 

Erring on the side of caution, Zayn had ordered up a large order of toast. Nothing that would be too awful to clean up should Harry's state take a turn for the worse. 

"Aw there's loads - you have some too mate!" Harry grinned. 

"Nope, I need you to eat it all Harry, and sober there hell up. Or there will be consequences!" He joked, wagging his finger mockingly. In truth, the bread smelt utterly amazing. Just watching Harry liberally trawl on butter and heaps of jam was enought to make his head spin. Fortunately, his friend took his words to heart, and had crammed it all away before he could break and reach for a slice.

"Sleepy," Harry muttered, delicately placing the tray on the floor before bodyslamming back down on the bed and wriggling down to his boxers. 

"Staying here then, I take it?" Zayn asked, already knowing that the answer was a foregone conclusion as he reclined to join his friend, enviously noting how toned Harry looked - and on a diet of beer and carbs, no less. "Oi, I didn't say you could take the whole bed though!" he objected, nudging Harry until he grudgingly shifted to a position where there was at least a third of the bed open. 

For a few moments, there was silence, until Harry huffed, "It's too hot!" and threw the thick duvet forward. Zayn rolled his eyes and was about to jokingly swat him, when he noticed Harry's gaze was fixed on his now exposed midriff.

"Ey mate, you've lost quite a bit of weight, haven't you?" He said, reaching out to poke Zayn in the stomach. Zayn recoiled. 

"No I haven't - fucking huge as ever," he protested, unconsciously grabbing the flesh over his hips and yanking down his top.

"Nah, you have. Tonnes, actually, now I think about it. You'll be rivalling Liam for hot body at this rate. The ladies will be lining up to throw their knickers at your face." 

"Shut up, idiot," Zayn moaned, batting Harry with a pillow. "Now, go to sleep before I drag you out to sleep in the bath, you horrible little drunkard." 

"Night....sexy." 

"Night...idiot." 

With Harry snoring softly beside him, Zayn felt awkward about reaching for the iPad. Instead, he concentrated on making his breathing sync with Harry, finally drifting off as the first rays of the sun began to force their way through the blinds.

The two bandmates slumbered on regardless. Harry was the first to wake. Groaning, he stretched like a cat, padding across the room to make some tea for Zayn and himself. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he sifted through a discarded pile of clothes on the floor, hoping to find something that didn't smell like it had been used to mop the floor of a nightclub.

Having retrieved a pair of black sweatpants and freshly laundered T-shirt, he set about pulling the borrowed outfit on. Something was wrong though. From previous raids on Zayn's wardrobe for comfy hangover wear, he knew that the boy usually wore a couple of sizes up from himself - guaranteeing optimum baggy comfort. But these trousers would barely go up past his thighs. Maybe they'd shrunk in the wash.

He tried to pull on a pair of Zayn's jeans, then another pair of sweats, but to no avail. In the end, he had to settle for a pair of basketball shorts that, come to think of it, he hadn't seen Zayn in for a month or so. In spite of his protests, he'd obviously lost a considerable amount of weight, he thought, turning to examine the sleeping boy in the bed.

The covers still lay discarded on the floor, and Zayn's vest had hitched right up again in the night. In the bright sunlight, two prominent hipbones arched up over a decidedly concave belly. Where there had previously been masculine curves, all he could see was sinew. Zayn's once athletic arms, now thrown back against the pillows, looked incredibly slender. How had he not noticed?

There was no doubt about it - Zayn had gotten incredibly skinny, and, having spent so much time together, they'd all been utterly oblivious to the gradual change. It must have been the stress of all their work lately, he thought to himself. As the quietest and most self-contained member of the group, nobody ever really heard Zayn complain - and so, nobody ever thought to check if he was OK.

He needs a good feed, thought Harry, some more sleep, and we all need to help him chill out a bit. Yes. That was all, some serious relaxation, and, as his own grumbling stomach was making clear, a few hearty meals. Simple.

Pulling out his phone, he sent a group message to the boys, instructing them to assemble in half and hour for an emergency brunch, followed by afternoon of beer and movies. By the time the boys had all replied an affirmative yes, Zayn had dragged himself into the bathroom for a shower. He took a change of clothes along with him, which, considering the amount of times they'd all seen each other naked before, Harry thought was a bit weird. But, he reasoned, maybe he was feeling a bit self-conscious about looking so scrawny.

Inside the bathroom, Zayn was working himself into a panic. It had been decided they'd all go for pancakes and bacon at a local diner where, and he knew this for a fact, nothing came in under 900 calories. Lately, he'd been trying to stay at about 800, after plateauing at 1000 - and it was working.

The pounds continued to drop, agonisingly slowly, but steadily down, nonetheless. He was still nowhere near average size though. It was like the more he lost, the more he realised what he was dealing with. Even a couple of stone down, sometimes he felt bigger than when he'd started the diet. But, he supposed, that was probably because he'd been in a bit of denial before - the amount of flesh that he could pull away from his torso with the gentlest of squeezes was proof of that.

Luckily Harry hadn't found the scales under the bed last night he thought, or I'd never hear the end of it. This was the first time in ages that the band had been given an entire weekend off to unwind, and from the sounds of it, it was going to be one long stretch of chilling out, interspersed with massive amounts of eating.

Resigning himself to his fate, Zayn pulled on his sweatpants - the first pair, in fact, that wiry Harry had utterly failed to slip on earlier, and shoved on a beanie. The one blessing was that, for the next days, he could be as slobby as he wanted - and, as far as Zayn was concerned, the less time away from the mirror, the better.

"You ready man?" Harry asked, scrunching up his face in concern as he realised for the first time just how exhausted Zayn looked. "You look knackered. You need bacon, and you need it ASAP!"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Let's go."

"That's what we like to see - enthusiasm" Harry chivvied, trying to ignore that he could feel Zayn's spine as he clapped him on the back on the way out of the door. He and the boys would have him sorted in no time. Easy.


	4. You want syrup with that?

"I like pancakes, I want pancakes, bring me up all your mother-flipping-pancakes!" Louis freestyled as they sat waiting for their server, predictably setting Harry into fits of giggles.  
"Oh lads, we can't take you anywhere" Liam groaned. "What you having Zayn? I could literally eat the whole menu."

"Ehm," Zayn looked up from his card, which was rapidly becoming crumpled in the corners as he nervously flipped it up and down. "Maybe the blueberry stack? Feeling the need for a sugar hit."

Lies. Right now, the pungent smells of fried meat and eggs were driving him to distraction. But if he was going to be forced to order something aside from black coffee, the only acceptable menu item in the whole place in his opinion, he'd be damned if it would be anything other than the lowest calorie option.

"Pussy. I'm going for the 'Hungry Man' stack, for I am a hungry man," chimed in Louis. In the end, Liam, Harry and Niall ended up going for the same. Zayn cringed inwardly. How could they face all that starch and grease together?

He'd noticed recently that certain food combos, even if they were low calorie, just didn't seem right anymore. Although he'd been happy to allow himself the occasional low-fat Subway until up until a few weeks ago -no cheese or mayo mind - now, the thought of any mixing of meat and bread was seemed unfathomably wrong.

Even when he tried to rationalise it to himself, he couldn't. At some point, the pairing had been shunted into the 'forbidden' part of his brain, and there was nothing that could induce him to try it again.

Sometimes Zayn wondered when it would end - if he kept cutting and adding rules and conditions to his mealtimes, surely one day he'd reach check mate, nothing left to eat. Generally he shrugged the thoughts aside - it wasn't as though they had endless hours for silent contemplation around the merry-go-round of interviews and rehersals and fittings anyway.  
Fuck. He'd been trying no to think about that last one - especially with the next torture by tape measure highlighted in angry red on his calender for next week.

The arrival of the food was almost a welcome distraction - until he saw the thick scoop of butter sliding across the top of his stack, slowly bleeding into the golden crust and leaving a slimy yellow snail trail. Disgusted, Zayn quickly wrapped the offending topping in a napkin, discreetly trying to mop up as much grease as he could whilst the others were distracted by their own mammoth platters.

It was too late though - already a dark patch had appeared on the top pancake. There was no way that was going in his mouth. The no-doubt sugar coated fruit dotted through the batter was unappealing enough.

He pushed it to the side of the plate, and contemplated pancake number two. Mercifully, the generous portion of thick blueberry syrup had been supplied in a separate mug so diners could smother their order to their own tastes. For Zayn, that would be not at all.

All chatter had momentarily died down on the table as everyone tackled their individual eating challenges. "Oh my god," Niall groaned, breaking the silence. "So, so happy right now."

"Mhmmm," agreed Harry, reaching across for yet another dollop of syrup. "What's up with your food Zayn?"

"Oh, nothing. Why?" he asked, flinching guiltily. He'd taken a few tentative bites, before affirming for sure that his food was utterly saturated with sugar. The only choice was to remove all the blueberries. Once he'd started fishing them out though, pulling the food apart had seemed much more appealing than actually eating it. Whilst the others had half full plates, in front of Zayn, there was a massive mound of fluffy, polkadot blue crumbs.  
"Well, I can't help but notice you appear to have masterfully dissected it - but none if it appears to have actually made it into your mouth," Liam commented.

"Yeah, I had some, but now I'm full, and I got bored waiting for you lot to get done, so I made myself an art project," he bluffed.

"Dude, sometimes, you are so very weird," Niall chuckled. "But that's why we love ya!"  
The others appeared happy to let the matter drop, though Zayn could have sworn he saw a curious expression flit across Harry's face - half way between exasperation and concern. A second later though, he'd gone back to picking at his leftover hash browns, much to his relief.

After paying and poising for a quick souvenir photo with the diner owner, the boys trooped back to Liam's room - always the least likely to resemble a disaster movie scene, and so the default hangout choice.

It was utterly freezing outside, and a biting wind that brought with it the promise of snow whipped through the boys hair. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, already the sky seemed to be darkening.

Having left the stuffy hotel in nothing with nothing but hoodies for shelter, they were all shivering. Zayn felt as though knives were stabbing through him every time a gust caught his thin clothing, bringing with them an ache that lingered long after they were settled in the snug suite.

Weary from the week's events, the boys had opted to start a classic Tarantino marathon. After discovering that he was the only one to have seen all his movies, Louis was insisting on 'educating' his fellow band mates.

Popcorn and Skittles circled the room, but Zayn confined himself to Cola Zero, figuring the others couldn't tell the difference once it was in a glass. This did mean he had to pee frequently though - problematic for defending your seat when everyone else was draped around like a pride of lazy lions. At one point, Niall decided to jokingly drape himself across the entire bed, leading Zayn to retaliate by sitting on his legs.

"Oh Christ, stop that, I'll move, I'll move! When did your arse get so bloody bony? Geez!" Niall protested.

"Now that you mention it, you are looking a bit hungry these days mate," Liam said, thoughtfully. "And you obviously didn't like your brunch. Here, I'll let to choose the pizzas," he added kindly, wafting a menu towards Zayn, who had slid back into the a nest of pillows.

"How can you 'look hungry'?" Zayn protested. "And I'm absolutely not. Let's just get the usual. Not like we ever branch out anyway." And not like he was going to be digesting any of it, either.

"Guys, I'm just going to grab my phone, be right back!" He announced, springing up from the sofa before anyone had a second to protest. It was true, he really did need to check his messages. And while he was at it, he would down six of the emetics pills he'd ordered online. Although he'd have preferred to have just stuck his fingers down his throat, he knew what was at stake. Without his voice, he was less than nothing. Fat, hideous, and lacking even the ability to provide a passable vocal.

Not that he hadn't resorted to it once or twice in the past few weeks - when he really panicked - but a few long, guilt laden days of vocal rest and talk of bringing in a specialist after his last clumsy purge had induced a scratchy voice and red raw throat had scared him into trying something else.

And so it was, following three slices of vegetable pizza, torn quickly out of the box and angled so most of the cheese slid away before it landed on his napkin, Zayn found himself gripped with a sudden, urgent wrenching pain in his gut. It didn't last long, but, feeling his innards gurgle in alarm, he self consciously gathered his legs up against his chest, praying nobody else would hear.

Luckily, everyone was engrossed in Kill Bill II, so much so that Louis jerked his upper body in shock like a seal as Zayn's hand planted at the base of his spine as he went vaulting into the bathroom.

The pains that had been gripping his abdomen with increasing intensity had risen to a crescendo. Just as Zayn was starting to sweat with agony, there was a burning sensation in his throat. It was all he could haul his head into the toilet, never mind locking the door, before he explosively voided contents of his stomach.

It seemed like everything had come up in one go. But the stomach contractions didn't stop. He carried on vomiting up bile until even that was gone. And still he sat, prone against the bowl, heaving uncontrollably as his mid-section continued to spasm. Fuck. Nothing he read on dieting forums had ever led him to expect this. 

He felt two cool hands gently plant on his neck, rubbing two lazy, soothing circles. A glass of water had appeared at his feet. Gingerly, Zayn reached for it, and swilled the acid from his mouth, before reaching up to flush the disgusting mess away.

"Well. That didn't sound fun. Are you OK?" Of course it was Liam who'd come to check on him. He of all people understood what it was like to feel sick and helpless.

Zayn paused for a second, before succumbing to another wave of dry heaving. His pulse was rapidly accelerating, and he could hear a faint whistling in his ears. Marshalling all his efforts, he pulled himself to his feet, leaning a hand against the wall to steady himself.  
"Nope, that was not fun. Must have been something I ate last night. Guess I'll be going back to my room now...to die."

"Ah that sucks. Wait a sec, I'll kick these lot out and come with you. Bit much to have everyone around when you're ill," said Liam, gesturing to the boys in the next room.  
"No, no, you really don't have to do that. It's really fine. I'm fine. Just need to sleep..." Zayn replied, before breaking off to spit up some more bile, grimacing in disgust. It felt like his insides were a washing machine someone had filled with acid, then set it to spin on turbo. 

In the end, he'd got away with just being escorted back to his room by Liam, promising that he'd call for help if he felt the slightest bit worse, and insisting that the others finished the marathon. Every step was agony - made all the worse by having to cover up quite how excruciating it was. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to see a doctor - it would just mean more complicated lies and humiliation scrutiny. 

The moment he was alone, he abandoned all pretence, allowing his knees to buckle as he slid down the door to crumple into a small scrunched up ball on the ground. At some point, he must have overridden the pain to fall into a fitful sleep. 

He awoke, chilled and stiff, with the imprint of the carpet pressed into skin that was now alive with goosebumps. His stomach felt like a balloon that's been expanded then deflated - not exactly sore, but definitely traumatised. It was the odd, metallic pain in his head that was the most pressing concern.

Zayn deliberately avoided glancing at the pale, shivering figure in the mirror as he stiffly drew himself a bath, grabbing his middle protectively to brace against a sudden wave of cramping. If he had, he would have seen the way the bones rippled under his skin with every movement. The way his thighs had receded to the same thickness as his calves, or the collarbones hollow enough to do shots from.

And if he'd taken in his face, shadowed with stubble, he'd have seen the sad, haunted look in his eyes that was playing on Liam's mind as, for the third time that morning, Zayn's phone rung through straight to answer phone.

But he didn't. And he wouldn't. All he cared about was getting warm, just for a while. A wry smile flitted across his face as he sank into the scorching hot water - he could hang out with everyone for the next few days, and nobody would even dream of forcing him to eat. He'd swallowed a few aspirin, and thankfully, the headache seemed to be ebbing away. All in all, this couldn't have gone better.


	5. Tender parts

A new week, another city, but it seemed like no matter how far they drove on through the dark night, they couldn't shake the snow. Snowball fights and dives into plump drifts had given way to annoyance on the part of Paul, concerned about slush being tramped all over the bus, and, more pressingly, accidental black eyes before press calls. There were enough fake 'in-fighting' blind items as it was without there being actual bruising for journos to seize upon.

The others grumbled, but Zayn was faintly relieved. They were effectively snowbound in their out-of-town hotel, which meant that all they had to do between interviews and rehearsals was endless boxset binges, and massive workout sessions. All of which he'd been able to do fuelled on essentially nothing but black coffee and a few swigs of protein shake.  
But, for all the miles he logged on the treadmill, sweat pouring off his body, nothing he could do seemed to shake the cold that had settled in his bones. Even bundled up with a sweater under a hoodie, his hands still felt like they'd been stuck inside a freezer.

Fitting day had arrived. He tried to look casual as he leant against the radiator in the hall, nervously waiting for Henerie to get done with whatever he was inflicting on Niall. Although the warm pipes were starting to sting the bottom of his legs, he stayed put, desperate to absorb any heat that he could.

The door flew open and Niall flew out. "All yours mate!" he yelled as he raced down the corridor. "I was supposed to Skpe my mam half an hour ago, but the bastard took forever picking between identical bloody blazers.  
"Cheers," muttered Zayn, reluctantly relinquishing his spot.

"Come on, come on. Put those on." Henerie called, gesturing to a pile of black garment bags as he stepped into the suite. Zayn bit back a sarcastic retort. It wasn't as though he'd been the one that had run late. Henerie barely glanced up from a tangle of neckerchiefs in front of him.

Resigned, Zayn unzipped the first bag, rolling his eyes in disbelief. The skinny-cut trousers inside looked tiny - with a waist that would be more appropriate for a school kid.

"What are you staring at? Move!" his torturer yelled across the room, eager to get the humiliation underway. To Zayn's surprise though, the trousers easily slid up his legs. Even buttoned, there was a considerable gap at the top. Bracing himself against the chill, he slowly pulled off his protective top layers, replacing them with a flimsy silver net vest.  
If one of the other boys had been here, he'd have made a snarky remark about the stylist channeling the Backstreet Boys, perhaps thrown in a few camp jazz hands for good measure.

But there was nobody to joke with. No shield.Just him, shivering in front of Henerie and his timid assistant - both of whom were scrutinising him silently. There was nowhere to hide. The trousers were slowly sliding down his hips, and it felt like fat was oozing out of the top, spilling over for all to see. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself protectively, but that would only make the vest accentuate the bulges around his armpits. So they stayed rigidly by his sides.

Henerie let out a jarring snort. "Is this a girlband? Are we dealing with girlband now, hey?" he smirked at Zayn, as though he should be in on the joke. "Come on!"

"I don't...no, it's not...I'm just..I'm not sure what you mean," he mumbled, taken aback.

The stylist humphed to himself as grabbed the dreaded tape measure and strode across the room, letting out a series of increasingly outraged explicatives as the tape briskly traversed its way around Zayn's body. Zayn tried not to look down, feeling as though he were being assaulted in some way. How could this feel even worse than when he was at his biggest?  
"Tell me, you think the girls like this?" said Henerie finally, drawing himself up to his full height to look Zayn in the eye, wafting his hands around his hips.

"I...maybe...No. No I don't think they do." he crumbled, feeling hot tears welling up in his eyes, humiliated beyond belief. "Please, please don't tell management. I'll try harder...I'll do better...I'm dieting all the time, it's just so..."

"Tell management? You think I care?" Henerie interrupted briskly. "I'm just here to make you look better. We'll just add some more layers...make you look like a man...not so..." he trailed off. Unusually, there was a kind look in his eyes.

"Tell me," he whispered, leaning into Zayn's ear conspiratorially, "What's your secret? Pills, mmm? Coke? How'd you do it?" Up close, his breath smelt like stale smoke. He withdrew before Zayn had a chance to respond, laughed, and patted his slender middle. "Fine. Don't tell me then. We all have our little ways," he said, winking.

Henerie turned to the stylist. "Get me a belt, and find that red polo neck and leather jacket. We pad him out a bit."  
Baffled, Zayn piled on the new items, turning uncomfortably for polaroids. "Good enough...maybe we'll order you some scarves too...hide all this," he muttered, running his hand down Zayn's scrawny neck. "Go now. And, maybe next time we try something a bit more exciting!"

Unwilling to argue with Henerie, who was chatting excitedly to his lackey, Zayn trotted out, not sure what to make of the past half hour. There was a burst of laughter in his wake as he heard the stylist crow, "Just like fashion week..."  
As he got into the elevator, glad to have avoided running into anyone else, a stray tear trickled down his cheek. Zayn brushed it away hurriedly. If he was fast, he'd have time for a quick workout, and that'd mean he could allow himself a few extra drinks at the awards do later that evening.

They weren't even eligible to be nominated for anything, but the prospect of a sanctioned evening out was too good a chance to miss for all of them - they'd all be cloistered back on the bus soon enough. Besides, he could definitely use a little fun. What's the worst that could happen?

The six am alarm the next morning seemed to buzz in sync with his pounding head. His body felt like chopped spam. Zayn let out a long low moan as of fragments of the past evening slowly filtered into his mind. There had been a lot of vodka, diluted with the merest of splashes of Diet Coke. Even the others had skipped dinner, bar Liam, who was on an unstoppable mission to build himself up to something the size of the average Shire horse.

There had been drunk dancing. Rubbing one tender hip, he remembered slipping at some point, and...was that cigarette ash under his fingernails? He'd stopped point black at the start of his health kick, but apparently they'd come back with avengence last night.

He tried to tug the cover around him, but there was something weighing it down. Something, or someone. Oh Christ. What had he done? Heart pounding, Zayn slowly turned his head around. Please, please God...  
Relief flooded his entire being when he saw the curly head embedded into the pillow. Unless he'd pulled a very convincing drag impersonator, apparently he'd drawn the 'parent Harry' card again - probably on account of being the second most drunk and least capable of palming him off.

 

If he was right, they had about thirty minutes to pack up and head downstairs for the radio interview. On cue, the phone started to buzz insistently as the reminder popped up. Against his better instincts, Zayn leapt out of bed and hurriedly pulled on some clothes, jamming items into his suitcase as he went.

Both he and Harry were in such a rush to get to the waiting taxi, neither of them so much as glanced at the pile of newspapers laid out in the lobby. They certainly didn't see the lurid headlines splashed across the token tabloid offering, which accompanied a shot of Zayn stumbling out of last night's after-party.

In the shot, he was sleepy eyed, tousle haired, with his shirt mostly unbuttoned, thanks to Niall's earlier antics on the dance floor. He'd pretended to be a salsa master, but what it had resulted in was ripped clothes across the board as he repeatedly grabbed the others and dipped towards the floor.

It would have been amusing - if the gaping fabric hadn't revealed a dramatically gaunt chest. Even the most masterful of publicists would have struggled to spin this. Bad camera angles were one thing - nothing, bar some serious digital trickery, could make someone look this ill.


	6. Cornered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated! Sorry for the delay, was on holiday. Thanks sooo much for the kind comments - I'm nervous about publishing my stuff but this gives me confidence to write more in the future!

It was still dark outside, and would be for some time. Beneath the wane yellow glow of the streetlight, the whole world glittered in a cloak of ice. In the distance, Zayn could hear a low hum from the highway, but apart from that, the only sign of life was his own shallow breathing.

He'd already done a few laps of the hotel, but he had at least twenty minutes to go before he was done. Then there'd be time for a quick shower, a nap, and he'd be down to breakfast bang on time. He'd so much rather be in the warm hotel gym - but that was now officially off limits to him. As were extra dance rehearsals, long walks, or anything that was deemed 'excessive'. And, for now at least, three loosely supervised meals a day was a grim necessity. 

It had been almost three months since 'photo-gate'. He'd been allowed to do the radio interview, but as the boys filed out, Zayn trailing along behind, a firm hand had grabbed his shoulder.

"You won't be joining them for the rest of the day mate. We're telling everyone you've got a family commitment," said Paul, in a tone that broker room for any argument. "Come on kid."

His heart was thumping so loudly, he was sure that everyone in the studio could hear it as he and Paul wove silently through the maze of corridors to the back exit. The others had left from the main front doors, into the colourful, cheering crowd of fans. The contrast to the empty back alley where Paul ushered him into the waiting black car couldn't have felt ominous.

Unusually, Paul sat in the back seat, face to face with Zayn. For the first time, Zayn noticed that Paul was clutching a thick stack of newspapers. As the car hit the road, wordlessly, he handed them over to Zayn. His stomach plummeted when he saw the first headline: 'Zayn Malik: Drugs Shame?', illustrated by an awful, unfocused looking shot.

It was as though he'd never seen himself before. His eyes looked sunken and hollow, his cheeks sunken, and he could barely look at the disgustingly prominent bones in his chest. The boy in the photo had a vacant smile on his face, but he looked utterly wretched. It was the same knee-jerk horror shot across all the papers, only the headlines varied. 'One Direction: Rehab!', 'The Shocking Story Behind Scary Skinny Zayn,' and, worst of all, 'Zayn the Junkie.'

"Which one is it?" said Paul, after a beat. "Drugs? Booze? Bad breakup? I've seen it all you know. I don't care which one it is. I've seen it all before. All I want to know is how I can help you stop fucking up."

"It's a bad shot...just a load of lies..."

"Zayn, don't. You know what's at stake. We can do the easy way, or the hard way. But either way, you're going to tell me what's going on. And if you won't tell me - you're going to tell the doctor."

He let out a long sigh, attempting to expel some of the tension before he spoke. Even so, Zayn's voice quavered as he replied. "It's not drugs. I'm not doing anything illegal. I haven't been with anyone in over a year. I'm not even smoking."

"So what is it?"

"Been working out a lot, guess I just took it too far maybe. And I've been so stressed lately, I've just not been that hungry... I'll cut back and..."

"Right. We're getting somewhere." Paul smiled encouraging. "If you're telling the truth, and I'm choosing to believe that you are, that's far easier to manage than a smack addiction, ey?"

"Great, so, can we go back to the hotel now?" said Zayn, hopefully.

"Not a hope in hell. Full medical for you - management's orders. If you're telling the truth, then you've got nothing to worry about, have you?" The drill sergeant voice was back.

"Guess not." agreed Zayn, sounding far more confident than he felt. Resigned to his fate, he slid back into the plush leather seats, falling into a fitful doze.

In true American style, the clinic staff were brisk, efficient, and unerringly polite. It reeked of money - well, you'd have to pay through the nose to get the kind of discretion that management demanded. After being weighed, measured, and submitting to providing a variety of samples, pokings, proddings and other seemingly pointless tests, he was given permission to put on his clothes, and given firm instructions to 'rest' in the clinic's plush lounge while they processed the results.

Irritatingly, his iPhone had died while he was in the medical suite, so he was left with little option but to sit staring at the walls. He sighed deeply again, and drummed his fingers on the sofa in agitation. Although there was a stack of glossy magazines on the table, he'd had quite enough of trashy showbiz gossip for the day.

Finally, the doors came flying open, and the doctor, Paul, and a woman dressed in bright scrubs strode in. Zayn had an urge to stand, like he was facing the X-Factor judging panel all over again.

"OK Zayn - we have your results," the doctor began. He had one of those California surfer accents, and everything came out on an up-note, like a question. It all added to the surrealness of the situation. "The biggest issue is that you're considerably underweight - you could stand to gain twenty pounds, at the very least.

From what I can tell, you're also pretty malnourished. We need to get you on potassium supplements, vitamins, iron, and an intense nutritional regimen straight away. Our nutritionist" he nodded at the woman in scrubs, who was nodding vigorously by his side and smiling widely,"will handle that. I'm also recommending you cut out exercise until your at something approaching a healthy BMI again."

"But otherwise I'm OK?"

"Absolutely. Tox screens negative, everything else is fine, I've already been through everything with Paul, and you're totally in the clear. We're discharging you today, and we'll see you in a month for a follow-up."

He couldn't believe how easy it was to fool them. Having convinced them all, including the clinic therapist, that it was all just a silly amount of exercise and some stress, they'd cut back on his appearances and banned him from the gym.

But that was fine really, he'd got pretty into running outdoors anyway, and the rest he could do in his room, if he was quiet enough. If anything, the sense of getting one up over everyone that was trying so hard to control him was even better than the endorphin buzz he got from throwing himself at a treadmill.

A tour lackey accompanied him to all his meals, but they were indifferent enough that it was easy to distract them. And, in the chaos of backstage, it was easy enough to discretely throw away the sandwiches, burgers and pizzas he made a point of grabbing with the guys. It was all a game, and he was winning.

All he had to do was down a few pints of water and stuff his pockets with change before the monthly weigh-ins, and, as the pounds appeared to be steadily climbing, everyone was happy. When he met the therapist, they practiced some relaxation exercises, and Zayn made a point of telling everyone how helpful all this mediation was. And it was - if you called disappearing to your room for a thousand crunches meditative.

To Henerie's credit, his new wardrobe did a lot to offset the weight loss. Padded out, bones hidden, with a bit of concealer and a high quiff, all he had to do was smile, and everyone was happy. Big smiles, energetic waves, nice singing, and everything was fine. He played video games with Louis, went drinking with Harry, watched movies with Liam and Niall, and everyone, in their own fashion, went out of their way to make sure he was content and relaxed.

It couldn't have been easier. And, if anyone thought he looked tired, or pale, or if he wanted to disappear for a bit, nobody would say anything - couldn't risk upsetting poor stressed Zayn after all. Big energy for photoshoots, happy faces, dancing, joking - he dug deep into his personal reserves, and everyone else was happy too. 

So maybe he'd started chain smoking again, and maybe he got tipsy a lot, and maybe he went to bed a little early these days. That was fine, if it helped him, everything was fine. Everyone was so fine, and so happy with his progress. Besides, the day after the awards do, Harry had been 'spotted' with a rising young model, and the press had switched their collective energies to stalking him day and night.

In between half-hour long public 'dates' and the occasional concert or dinner, Harry had been unusually subdued. This was his third 'hot love affair' that year, and he seemed a little jaded by it all. Recently, Harry and Zayn had taken to meeting in the hotel bar at around eleven at night, sifting through the endless Harry-centric blogs and non-ending rumours. They laughed at the most ridiculous theories, and rolled their eyes at the ludicrous claims by the 'sources' driving the insatiable gossip machines.

Zayn was glad to be able to support his friend, and, for the first time in a long while, happy to feel needed. It made him horribly guilty that playing the PR machine seemed to be exacting such a toll on Harry, but at the same time, he couldn't help be grateful that there was a new topic for interviewers to obsess over.

Suddenly, he was caught in the bright beam of yellow headlights. A taxi slowly crunched up the drive, and Harry himself slipped out, apparently deep in thought. Shit, he'd forgotten there was another supposedly secret tryst taking place that night. He thought about hurrying inside, but it was too late, Harry had already spotted him. 

"Alright mate. What you doing up at this hour?" he asked, slurring slightly.

"Oh." Zayn let out a fake laugh. "Mum got confused what time zone I'm in and phoned me at 3am - couldn't get back to sleep, so I came out for a fag."

"Doh. Fair enough. Cheeky nightcap - or breakfast drink, at this hour?" he said, hopefully.

"Sounds perfect," agreed Zayn, sensing that Harry had things on his mind. "Bloody Marys it is."

He breathed a sigh of relief as they pushed open the doors. He'd just skip that nap and do some Insanity in his room instead. Got to offset that tomato juice, after all, or it'd go straight to his stomach. It was all fine. Just sensible, healthy behaviour for someone prone to weight gain. Yes, everything was all perfectly fine.


	7. You used to love it

"Earth to Zayn."

"Alloooo."

"Dude, wake up!"

The last attempt was accompanied with a hefty punch to the shoulder by Louis, who always got a little manic after long drives. That did it. Zayn sleepily eased himself off the car window ledge where he'd been snatching a quick nap, and grumpily shuffled across the seats. Niall smirked at him as he joined the other four on the tarmac.

"Don't worry wickle Zaynie, you can go back to nap time once we're on the plane," he laughed.

"Or...I can stuff you in the overhead locker," he shot back moodily. Niall merely chuckled in response, and skipped up the steps to their private jet. They all knew what Zayn was like when he was overtired - and, having come from two weeks of straight performances, anyone would be a little worn out. 

The engine rumbled into life, and soon the runway was speeding past in a grey blur. By the time they broke through the thick clouds, Zayn had dropped off again, oblivious to the turbulence as the small jet rattled its way up into the stratosphere.

Louis, on the other hand, was well aware of it. He was a nervous flyer at the best of times, even after the hundreds of trips he'd racked up. Glumly, he pulled down the shutter over the window. Niall and Liam both had their headphones on, and it looked like they'd be drifting off soon too. That left only Harry.

Things had been awkward between the pair lately. Although they'd used to be thick as thieves, almost co-dependant, if truth be told, he'd been spending every spare minute lately hanging out with his girlfriend Eleanor.

Although the pair were happy, she was stressed with uni, and seemed especially sensitive to online abuse lately. No matter how many times he'd sighed and explained how, awful as it was, it was part of the territory that came with being a 1D WAG, she couldn't let it go. It was a vicious cycle. The more the trolls attacked, the more needy and anxious she was - and so the more on-edge they looked when they were out together, fuelling the haters.

He'd turned down enough of Harry's requests to hang out in favour of staying in to Skype with her or see her in the UK that eventually, his friend had stopped bothering. And when he tried to make it up to him, Harry would act hurt and sulk.

But it wasn't like he owed him anything. It was like he resented Eleanor or something. For God's sake, why couldn't he just follow her on Twitter? It was like he wanted people to think he hated her - made all the worse when you thought about the amount of time she spent with the group.

He and Harry had been no more than silly kids really when they met - and just because...the things they'd done together...it was all just playing...just boys messing around...right? No different than what he'd do with anyone else when he was pissing around with his football mates in the locker room. Right. The plane gave a sudden lurch, and he let out an involuntary gasp, distracted from his train of thought.

From across the plane, he heard a soft laugh. "Oh, piss off!" he stage whispered, careful not to wake the others.

"Sorry, but you should see your face. You look like we just got torpedoed or something," Harry mocked. "It's just a bit of wind, that's all."

"Yeah, terrifying, hurricane force plane jiggling wind! I don't get how you can be so calm," Louis whined, wincing as another wave of rattling hit the cabin.

Harry smiled, rolling his eyes. "Come sit here in the back with me, I brought beer." Louis bit his lip. "I'm getting bored, anyway. And this lot will be out for ages, from the looks of it."

"Alright," Louis agreed warily, carefully edging across to where Harry was sitting. "But close your window shutter too."

After doling out a few six cans, Harry had fished out a packet of cards from his pocket, and the pair had passed the next few hours playing Cribbage and Rummy. Gradually, the tension crackling between them eased away. Eventually, Louis felt comfortable enough to kick off his shoes and drag his duvet across to Harry's bank of seats.

"Should I deal again?" asked Harry.

"Nah, let's take a break for a bit," Louis decided.

"Yeah..." sighed Harry. "Man. Feels like forever since it was just me and you." There was a moment of silence, before Louis sat up bolt upright.

"Oh my God. I just realised we forgot to eat dinner. Are you hungry?"

"A bit, now you mention it," nodded Harry, amused by Louis characteristic refusal to get into anything 'deep'. "Damn, and Paul told us to make sure that Zayn doesn't skip any meals. On pain of death, or worse... the call."

"Shit yeah - should we wake him? Anyway, he'll be well annoyed if he loses weight because of us."

"Will he though?" asked Harry, playing with his curls absently. "Sometimes I think he wants to stay that skinny. He's always complaining about portion sizes and stuff. Like, if I looked like...that, I'd be stuffing my face. Not being harsh, but, it's crazy how tiny his wrists are. And his jeans were hanging off him the other day in the studio. Surely you'd want to bulk up a bit?"

"Know what you mean. But you know, they airbrush all the pictures and stuff, so maybe he doesn't realise how small he looks, you know? And he sleeps through makeup, so not like he spends any time in front of the mirror. Anyway, I think we should at least try." 

"Yeah...but he looks so tired. Do you really think it's worth bothering? I mean, he gets pissy enough about being reminded to eat as it is, never mind when he's trying to sleep," said Harry thoughtfully. "Especially if you're cooking," he added, giving Louis a cheeky wink.

"Oi! You bloody loved it when I cooked for you."

"Oh yeah, it was marvellous. I so enjoyed having to remove the fire alarm batteries because you couldn't even make toast without waking up the entire block every morning," he teased, smirking at the memory. "Go on then, let's give it a shot." 

Harry disentangled himself from the warm duvet, and grabbed three prepared picnic style meals from the fridge. It dawned on him at this point that he was more than a little tipsy. "Zaaaayn," he whispered, nudging his friends head with a box. "It's dinner time. Louis and I made this especially for yoooou."

"Nargh. Feck off," mumbled Zayn, leaning over to give Harry an unexpectedly violent shove. Taken by surprise, Harry stumbled back, cracking his head on the overhead locker. Louis was behind him at once, concerned.

"Ow! Fine, you ungrateful little diva. I'm just going to put it here," Harry muttered, wedging the food in the gap between Zayn's quilt and the window. "Don't say we didn't try. C'mon Lou. I need another beer. And possibly a head rub," he said, hopefully.

The two crept back to their warm bank of seats, Louis playfully shoving Harry out of the way as they fought over the blanket. Any further responsible thoughts of forcing Zayn to eat were soon forgotten as the two settled into their second six pack, a sense of camaraderie drawing over them like a familiar warm blanket.

Shortly after they touched down in LAX, everyone's phones buzzed back into life. While everyone was occupied with checking in with their families, Zayn took great pride in furtively updating his MyFittnessPal. Yesterday: 80 calories. The day before yesterday: 380 calories. He didn't fancy calling his mum at that point. It was too awkward to lie to her about what he'd eaten for dinner when everyone could overhear. 

He'd be forced to have something when they all went to the breakfast meeting with the record execs they'd flown across to meet - have to put on a show for them, after all - but after that, the day was his to do with as he pleased. A long glorious afternoon of freedom stretched ahead, and it felt like he had all the time in the world.


	8. In the cold light of day

Famous last words. The moment the meeting was finished, Harry and Louis had hopped into a taxi together, jabbering about some exhibition Harry wanted to check out. "Weird. Is it 2012 all over again?" joked Liam. "I don't know about you guys, but I feel like heading for burgers, then the beach."

"Sick plan. Zayn, c'mon, don't say no, you haven't hung out with us for ages," Niall whined.

Zayn rolled his eyes. It was true, he'd been keeping to himself a lot these days. He was just so tired, he constantly felt like his fuse was about to run down. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with anyone - he already felt like the annoying fifth wheel bandmate most of the time as it was.

"No answer. That means yes! And if it means no, I'll tell all the fans where you are on Twitter. So you might as well come with us. Yes!" Niall crowed.

"Fine," Zayn sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache starting in his temples. He'd been getting those a lot lately. "But only if we can get sushi instead."

"Done! Quick Liam, let's roll before he changes his mind! Gotta enjoy this sun while we can - then it's the frozen wastes of Canada tomorrow."

"I'm pretty sure Toronto doesn't count as frozen wasteland Niall," Liam interjected.

"Whatever man. It's cold enough. Now you fools, are you gonna help me get a cab or not?" 

Maybe it was the sunshine, maybe it was the lively company, but Zayn felt calm enough to enjoy a full order of sashimi in the restaurant, though nothing could have enticed him to touch the stodgy rice rolls. As meals out went, it was an almost painless experience. It had turned out that he'd been able to get away with eating just fruit salad at breakfast, disguised by the mammoth bowls on offer, so, even with the unplanned meal, he was still way under his daily allowance.

The only uncomfortable part came when it was time to leave. As Zayn stood, he was overcome by an odd spinning sensation. Black spots started to bloom in front of his eyes, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. A roaring sound like a train filled his ears. He staggered back into his chair, and thankfully, the sensation passed. Niall and Liam, who had been occupied talking to fans, didn't even notice.

Realising Zayn was lagging behind, Niall yelled out, "Zayn! Get your fat ass down here. What are you like?" Suddenly horribly self-conscious, Zayn shoved his beanie down over his eyes and strode ahead. Behind his back, Liam jabbed Niall sharply in the ribs. "Mate, can it with the fat jokes."

"What? I only said it because he's so thin! Geez!" whispered Niall, abashed. Sensing he'd annoyed Zayn, he did his best for the rest of the day to keep on his good side. He didn't even comment on the fact that Zayn chose to keep his sweat pants and baggy hip-hop style T-Shirt on when they arrived at the swelteringly hot private hotel beach, which was essentially deserted on the weekday afternoon.

In spite of his annoyance, Zayn couldn't help but enjoy himself. He even mellowed out enough to allow Louis and Harry, who'd eventually showed up again in the late afternoon, to bury him in the sand.Oddly, they wouldn't really say what they'd been up to, but they both seemed incredibly pleased with themselves. 

They'd all planned an early night to allow for a four am wake up call, but in the end, had all found themselves unable to drag themselves away from the terrace until well into the night. It was rare that they could all spend time chilling out like this - the only person who bothered them all day was an eager young server, who was clearly delighted to have been assigned these particular visitors.

It wasn't to last though. Toronto airport was a war zone - flashbulbs going left right and centre, mobs of girls as far as the eye could see, and everywhere, someone tugging, screeching, or pushing at them. Ducking his head down, Zayn jogged behind the burly security team, who were doing their best not to hurt the hysterical fans. He felt someone grab his arm and snatched it away, panicked.

There was an unpleasant tearing sound, and he felt the seams of his sweater rip apart. It didn't matter though - all they wanted to do was get to the safety of the waiting car, which at that moment, seemed miles away.

Finally, they were all in, with Niall bringing up the rear. The second he lumbered into the car, someone behind him forcefully slammed the doors shut, and the engine rumbled into life. His face was flushed, and tears were brimming in his eyes. Nobody said anything. They were all too shocked. This wasn't the first time they'd been mobbed, but it never got easier. Zayn's heart felt like it was going to burst. Everything seemed far away and distant. Those annoying black spots were returning. He squeezed his eyes shut, and put his head in his hands, desperately fighting the darkness.

He didn't really feel right for the rest of the day. Rising for his four am jog the next morning, the silence felt blissful. Zayn had already worked out a route on Google Maps, but he hadn't bothered to check the weather. If he had, he'd definitely have chosen some shoes with better grip. Ten minutes in, he was slipping and sliding on an early morning frost.

Having decided against going back to the hotel, figuring he was already a quarter of the way in, he picked up the pace, keeping a careful eye on the road ahead. But apparently not careful enough. All at once, he felt his left foot careen out from under him, twisting back against the forward momentum of his body.

At the same time, the pavement loomed up to meet his face. Sharp grit dug into his hands as he hit the asphalt. It stang, but was nothing compared to the sudden lightning bolt of agony that shot through him as he tried to straighten his leg. It was indescribably painful. A second attempt resulted in him vomiting right into the street.

Something was horribly wrong. Zayn wasn't sure how long he lay there panting on the kerb, but he knew that the minutes were ticking away before he was supposed to be back at the hotel, dressed and ready for a day of rehearsals.

He grimaced and, mustering all his energy, pushed himself into an awkward standing position, limping heavily as he staggered on to the main strip. Luckily, having brought some cash with him in hopes of finding a late night drug store, he was able to flag down a cab back to the hotel.

Once there, he downed as many painkillers as he thought was safe, and plunged his leg into a bath of icy water. He'd be in so much trouble if anyone discovered he'd been running - let alone before such a massive gig. It was probably only a sprain anyway. He'd just keep icing it, and pretend he'd twisted in hurrying down the arena corridor or something the next day.  
Eventually, the cold was just too much. Stifling a gasp, he half flung himself on to his bed, his heart pumping over time with the effort. How did he get here? Being in the band - the tours - the music, was supposed to have been his dream.

One minute, he'd been a chubby loser from Bradford, just a normal average kid in a big family with nothing to mark him out. Almost overnight, that had all turned upside down. The big rock star - who was he kidding, he thought bitterly.

Eating rice cakes alone in his room while the others partied, living it up, seemingly loving every minute. Dragging himself out of bed at the crack of dawn, and feeling like hell all the time. Worst of all, the endlessly long dark nights staring at the wall, feeling like the only person in the world. He didn't know how much more he could endure.

This might have been rock bottom, but to be honest, every day, for so long now, had felt like a war. A civil way against himself, with no hope of outside intervention. Though his leg ached, he'd gotten so used to hiding and lying in plain sight, it was just another thing to add to the long list of things he needed to cover up, at the end of the day.

All at once, a deep, shuddering sob wracked his fragile frame. He dragged his pillow over his face, like he'd used to do when he was a little boy, and howled into it, unwilling, even in the solitude of his room, to give full voice to his grief. A low blue light was filtering through the curtains, and from somewhere, he could hear birdsong - to Zayn, it had the sharp, grating sort of quality you only hear when you've been up all night. Time to get dressed and put on his brave face.

It took about three times as long as usual, but eventually he was ready to go. Zayn had thought about strapping up his ankle, but that would look far too suspicious. Instead, he settled for some tight tube socks.

Every movement felt like torture as he eased the garment over the injured limb, and for a horrible second, he thought he was going to be sick all over again. For once, he didn't even care about hiding his frame. He'd look horrendous whatever he put on anyway.

None of the boys gathered in the lobby were in the mood for talking. Louis was furiously texting away, a pensive look on his face. Harry on the other hand looked smug but tired, and was leaning against the wall next to him. If Zayn hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was trying to read over Louis' shoulder, but that would have been a bit stalkerish. Liam and Niall sat slumped against each other on the bench, unwilling to concede that it was really time to be awake.

The day was just beginning, and already it sucked. Their car got stuck in the snarl of morning traffic, and they ended up being forty minutes late to the venue. The equivalent of four hours in insane 1D tour time. Crew tempers were fraying, sound guys were stressing over a speaker glitch, and worryingly, some of the pyrotechnics were malfunctioning.

Zayn had been spared the most intense choreography, so he hung on the sidelines, sipping black coffee and trying not to look too much like a stork as he leaned back on one leg.

He couldn't go by unnoticed all day though. Finally, it was time to run through the cat walk routine. The boys needed to be absolutely sure of their footing when they ran out into the hysterical crowd, in the dark, with blinding spotlights beaming down on them. One slip, and there was a genuine worry that they could fall into the mob of fans below.

Although management said the big risk was them crushing an audience member, Liam joked that the real danger was that one of them would be torn limb from limb - and that would mean one huge insurance premium for the surviving four next tour.  
The plan was that each one of the boys would take a run up down the full fifty metre platform, before tagging in the next one, like a relay. Then they'd all line up five meters apart, and fireworks would go off. For this reason, the timing was incredibly tight.

Harry and Louis, who seemed to have cheered up immeasurably over the course of the morning, were messing around, skipping and prancing when it came to their turns, but always hitting their marks bang on time.

Niall had whispered to Zayn that he thought Louis and Eleanor had got into a major fight last night. It must have been really serious, as for once,following his marathon session that morning, he'd actually turned off his phone.

Zayn wasn't really paying attention though. His head was all over the place. Even if he'd wanted to, there was no way he could have eaten anything to settle his blood pressure. He'd been keeping as still as possible, but was nevertheless drenched in a cold sweat.

His hoodie stuck to his clammy back, and his hands trembled inside his sleeves, the ends of which which he was gripping on to for dear life, trying to ride out the discomfort.

People kept barking instructions, but he couldn't really follow what they were saying. He'd just have to copy the others and hope it wasn't advice about not running into open flames on stage or something.

All too soon, crunch time arrived. "Go Zayn!" yelled the choreographer. He paused for a second, and Liam gave him a gentle shove. Steeling himself, Zayn dashed up the ramp. Clearly his best efforts weren't good enough though - he was way out.  
"What are you playing at? This isn't a lazy Sunday jog. Do it again, three times as fast. We don't have time to dick around here," the exasperated Canadian heckled, waving a stop watch for emphasis.

Getting back to his post was even worse. It must have looked like he was giving major attitude as he painfully dragged himself back the way he'd came, because from somewhere, he heard a hoarse disembodied voice groan, "Stop wasting everybody's time Mr Malik!" He pushed himself on, swaying slightly as he came to a halt.

"Again. Go. Now. Before I really start to lose it."

"Man, are you OK? You're shaking," Niall whispered, far too polite to actually speak up and risk offending their harassed taskmaster further. Zayn was about to turn around to answer that no, actually, he was a little frightened, and why couldn't he catch his breath?

But then he heard a hysterical shout of "Go you little shit!" and, like the well trained performer he was, he blindly hurled himself forward. Then the lightning hit him again. It was even more powerful this time, and he could have sworn he saw a bright, blinding flash. His senses were on fire. His entire world was a spinning ball of pain, and he just wanted it to end.  
He felt his good leg buckle underneath him, the platform swaying crazily in front of his eyes as he sank to the floor. The light was fading, and darkness was creeping in to fill the space. This time, he let it come, too weak to fight. He just wanted it to be over, for everything to stop.

Occupied with the internal battle inside his head, Zayn was oblivious to how close he was to the edge of the raised walkway. A shudder went through him, and his arms windmilled wildly as he fought against the searing cloud of fire that enveloped him.   
From somewhere, there was a distant scream. "Oh fuck, he's falling...he's falling..." 

From even further away, there was the soft drumming of four pairs of feet racing towards him. All to no avail. The light had shrank to two tiny pinpricks, and, as, Zayn's thrashing body went rolling over into the steep drop, it finally died away completely.


	9. Into the fire

The memories came in odd disjointed shards, flurrying across his mind like snow crystals. A searing light, with two dark shapes hovering above him. Someone yelling something about atropine, he thought. At some point - he wasn't sure - he heard a voice urgently telling him to stay awake, over and over again, but it was too foggy and far away, and the pull to the darkness was just so magnetic. 

Then motion, and beams of fluorescent lights ahead. "You'll feel a scratch," he heard someone say, and an icy chill crawled up his arm. He remembered wanting to protest, to scream, but he was paralysed. No nobody could touch him. Oh God, someone had taken off his shirt. Everyone would see, everyone would know what a fucking mess he was. But he was trapped on a rack, and the light was fading...Again, darkness. 

Time had spun out of control. The next time he opened his eyes, he felt himself coughing and choking, before the deep, cloudy sleep rolled back over him.

Finally, everything was still. He could tell he was in a bed, but for some reason it was difficult to open his eyes. His head still felt woolly, but...something was missing. Wait, what happened to his left leg? Something was pinning it in place, and when he tried to jerk away, he felt a sharp stab of pain. Panic overtook him.

Why couldn't he move it - had there been an earthquake or something? Was he trapped under a piece of debris? How long had he been here? He just wanted to go back into the black place he'd come from. It had felt warm and safe, and more importantly, quiet.

There was an insistent electronic beep somewhere above his left ear, and it was growing faster and more frantic. He moaned loudly, the sound laboured and agonised, as though he hadn't used his voice in some time.

"Nurse! Nurse!" a familiar voice screamed...was that his mother? Impossible. She was in the UK, and there were no earthquakes there.

Heavy footsteps, and then another scratch. "It's fine, just a reaction to the painkillers...We'll just settle him so he doesn't cause any damage..." The fog rolled back in, and everything was calm again.

It was almost three days before the drugs had worked out of his system and things started sliding into place. Finally, he opened his eyes properly, and squinted at the figure by the bed. Her warm hand was clutching his anxiously.

"Mum? What's...what's going on?" he whispered.

Her eyes were swimming with tears. He'd never seen her look so broken, so defeated. "Oh love, you're finally back" she choked, before collapsing into sobs, before gasping, "never fucking do that to me or your father again. Ever."

It was some time before he could make sense of what had happened, the bulk of the story relayed to him by the doctor, as every time his mother tried to speak about it, she dissolved into another crying jag. It turned out that he'd sustained a spiral fracture to his ankle - something that, from the damage and amount of swelling, the team estimated had happened some time before the fall.

Right now, an ugly metal halo encircled his lower leg. Just looking at the bloody pins erupting from the skin around it made him feel queasy, so he'd asked the nurse to cover it with a blanket. Apparently he was lucky he hadn't developed a clot, or need more surgery than he did.

Shock had set in, and, due to his "severely weakened system," as the doctor had put it, his body had gone into a state of total collapse. He'd been on the verge of a full on heart attack, and it was only thanks to the potassium and vitamins he'd been dutifully swallowing every day that he hadn't gone beyond the point of no return.

It would be a long recovery, but in time, the leg would heal. The fall had left him with some heavy bruising and a couple of cracked ribs, but miraculously, the angle at which he'd tumbled had staved off any head trauma. He was so heavily medicated for his ankle anyway he'd barely registered these injuries, until his mother had held his arm up to the light for him to observe the heavy purple and yellow mottling. 

Having shared this 'good' news, the doctor asked his mother to leave the room. "Zayn. What happened to your leg? That's a fairly intense fracture you've sustained. And either you were in a severe crash - which - given the lack of concomitant trauma, I highly doubt - or there's something serious going on with you. You know what I think?" he said, staring at Zayn intently.

"What?" he said, attempting to look confident.

"Your tox screens are negative, and, other than the malnutrition and injuries, you're not presenting with any other issues. So, that leads me to conclude that you're starving yourself, and have been for some time. Explains why even a minor knock could have shattered the bone so badly. You're a hell of a lucky guy it wasn't your spine." 

He paused, and rubbed the bridge between his eyes tiredly before continuing. "I took a look at your medical records, and, from what I've seen, your case history is very consistent with typical anorexia sufferers. You might have been able to convince the people at that fancy clinic you went to before...but I've been in this profession for over twenty years, and believe me, this is as cut and dried a case as I've ever seen."

"I..." Zayn felt exposed, stripped of his defenses. Lying there linked up to various machines, a tangle of IVs feeding god knows what into his veins, he was utterly powerless. Also, he suspected that one was full of sugar solution, and that was starting to play on his mind intensely - already he could feel his hips beginning to swell, just lying there.

"I...can't stop...it's...I don't...know how," he whispered, cringing at how pathetic he must look - this bloated weeping idiot, to this man that had helped so many people that deserved it, every day.

"I'll lay it on the line, because from what I've heard, you're smart. At least, that's what my twelve year old daughter tells me," he said, smiling kindly. "But," and at this, his face turned stern, "if you carry on, I can guarantee, three months, six months, I don't know how long, but your body is going to shut down. You'll have a heart attack, and you'll die.

So, the way I see it, you've got two choices. Get with the program, sort out whatever it is that's making you do the things you do...or leave it all behind. Your family, your friends...all those people that love you.

I'll tell you this, if you were hoping to make some sort of rock and roll 27 club, you'll be checking out years before that point.

Anyway, so that's it. I've done my part. The rest is up to you." He nodded stiffly. "I'm going to talk to your mother now, then I'll be back in a few hours." 

Zayn lay there, numb with shock. So there it was. All this time, he'd been steadily compartmentalising his life, lining up a million daily routines, rituals, a Swiss clock of complicated mechanisms to keep this monster inside his mind in control. And suddenly, it had all fallen apart, and he was left with stark choice: Live, or die with the monster.

But it seemed like even that wasn't really up to him. Not really. Two hours after the official diagnosis, management had arrived, apparently deeming him rested enough to face the music.

The guy they sent in was all business, no soft edges. In a way he was glad. He didn't need any kindness - that was the last thing he deserved, having let so many people down. Zayn couldn't even begin to imagine how furious the others must be with him for fucking things up so catastrophically. "So, here's what we're going to do kid," the suit clad exec began, dispensing with any pleasantries straight off the bat. 

"We've sent out a press story saying you injured yourself in rehearsals, and you'll be going on a strict three month rehabilitation course in a remote clinic to get you back into shape. The boys have been sent back to the UK on a PR cover blitz, and you'll be making up the dates in the summer. Understood?" "So..." Zayn choked, struggling to articulate himself, "you're not firing me?"

"Fire you? Christ kid, do you not remember that contract you signed? You owe us another three tours at least. Besides which, don't you pay any attention to our marketing briefings? You're far and away the most popular member in certain key territories. It would be suicide to our expansion plans for us to let you go at this point. "

"Oh, well, thanks, I guess."

"What else? Oh, we've issued a blanket ban of discussing any 'events' leading up to this incident. Anyone that talks...let's just say, there will be penalties. And that goes for all you boys."

"When are you sending me off? Guess I don't get a say in this either."

"Not while you're on our payroll. And as soon as you're discharged. We've talked to the medics, and that should be within the next two weeks or so. Any further questions?"

Zayn bit his lip. "No, I think that's crystal clear."

"Great. Well, I've got to run. There's yet another crisis meeting planned this evening. Gotta figure out what we're gonna do to keep your little friends busy." He rolled his eyes at Zayn, clearly annoyed that this was all so disruptive to his busy schedule.

"Oh," he called, as he was halfway out of the door, "and we're bringing in a new stylist. Henerie was clearly out of line not reporting how many inches you were losing - even though we briefed the whole team to keep tabs on your little 'problem'."

Well, at least there was one silver lining to the whole affair. He just hoped the next guy wasn't even worse. His leg was beginning to ache. They were slowly easing him off the morphine, and the true extent of his injuries were gradually, and unpleasantly, letting themselves be known. At least nobody was trying to make him physically eat, even if they were pumping him full of God knows what. 

There were more pressing issues anyway. Every angle he chose to lie in triggered some new pain point. He couldn't even cough without triggering a horrible stabbing sensation in his chest. He was still too out of it to read, and American TV daytime TV was too nonsensical to endure for long. And so he lay there, and he thought.

After his mother flew home back to his siblings, there wasn't much else to do. His heart ached when he contemplated how long it would be until he was with them - or Niall, Liam, Harry or Louis, again. Or if they'd even want to really see him, after everything that he'd put them through.

He knew he should have been thinking about preparing himself for the clinic - it was somewhere in Arizona, he'd heard - but at this point, that was the most terrifying prospect at all.


	10. Leave me alone

A lifetime ago, Zayn had read that loneliness intensifies makes pain feel even worse. The memory bubbled to the surface as a cough racked his body, jolting his sorely abused ribs in the process. Maybe that's why he felt so utterly wretched today, Aside from a few all too brief phone calls with his immediate family, the only human contact he'd had lately was with an endless stream of medics, who weren't exactly falling over themselves to be his new best friend. 

There were also dozens of missed calls from his boys and cousins, but he'd ignored them all, unable to face the questions they might have, especially now word would have got out about the supposed-anorexia. 'Anorexic' was certainly a strange new label for him to digest, one that sat uneasily alongside 'boy band member' and 'pop star.' Would everything he did from now on be coloured by the diagnosis? Was that all people would think about when they saw him?

Tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes. What had been a slight cold his mother had picked up on the plane had blossomed into full on germ warfare to which his severely weakened immune system hadn't even attempted to fight. 

"Perfect," he thought to himself, gingerly leaning over to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wincing with the slight effort. Now I'll go to rehab sniffing like a coke head, as well as looking like a bloated alcoholic that got on the wrong end of a bar brawl. 

Exhausted, he sank back into his pillows, glumly pawing at the flesh on his left side. As flabby as he'd felt before, after a week or so in the hospital - time seemed to have taken on a treacly, elastic quality since the accident so he couldn't really say - it felt like his body was turning to jelly. If he was as underweight as they said, why did he feel so huge?

Hearing a tell tale squeak from the hallway, his stomach roiled. "Yeay, lunch time!" he mumbled sarcastically, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the chippy nurse orderly, who smiled awkwardly as he deposited a tray on Zayn's bed tray. 

"Enjoy!" she squeaked, hastily backing out of the room. Zayn rolled his eyes. Clearly she hadn't been briefed on his case notes. 

More for something to do than any hint of appetite, he cautiously inspected the contents of the airline-style meal. As much as he respected his doctor, and he really genuinely wanted to please him, there was no way he could eat this.

For starters, the chicken sandwich was sodden with cheap and oily mayonnaise. That was a definite no. Ditto the cheese and crackers. Who needs a sandwich and then a side of starch? On the other hand, the limp looking side salad would have possibly been an option, had he not been so stuffed up. Nobody wants vegetable when they're ill, surely? And as for the yogurt, well, in spite of the fruit on the label, a cursory glance at the ingredients on the side led him to include it was little better that watery candy. 

Satisfied that he wasn't being unreasonable, Zayn pushed the offending offerings away and sank back into his pillows. He must have fallen into a light doze, because when he next opened his eyes, the tray was gone, and his physio was awkwardly shuffling into the room with an unwieldily silver walking frame. 

"Alright buddy, ready to go?" he rallied, not waiting for an answer as he began the process of uncovering Zayn's injured leg and arranging the equipment into place.

"OK so, just slide to the edge of the bed, and I'm going to help you put your good foot on the floor, alright?" he purred, clearly sensing his patient's anxiety as Zayn began the laborious process of rolling himself into position, pausing every few seconds to navigate the jigsaw pattern of injuries around his body that were protesting with every slight movement.

Finally, he felt the cool hospital linoleum under his toes as he lowered himself off of the bed. "Great job man!" the physio chirped. "Now, keep putting your weight on the frame, and we'll try and move around a bit." 

"'K," Zayn wheezed, his forearms shivering as he put all his effort into keeping his cast off the floor. 

"Great job - great job! Now, just a little further..." the physio urged, keeping a steadying hand on Zayn's back. "Now, let's..."

Zayn never did find out what his energetic companion was going to suggest, because suddenly his ears started buzzing, as though someone had turned the radio channel to static. "Whoa, can we just..." he mumbled, twisting himself back towards the bed in confusion. "Dizzy. Think I'm gonna..."

"Hey kid, it's OK, you're OK...just stay stay with me, stay still...don't panic. We're just going to get you back safe..." he cooed, reaching around to support Zayn's emaciated upper torso fully. "CAN I GET SOME HELP HERE PLEASE?" he screeched in the general direction of the hallway, abandoning any pretence of calm. As if on cue, a duo of nurses swept in, grabbing an arm each as they gently slid Zayn back into bed. 

Although both were both relatively slight, they handled him as though he weighed as much as a paper doll. Not that it did anything to calm him down. Zayn's heart was pounding and his breath was coming out in choking bursts. He scrunched up his face as a cuff was tightened around his upper arm. 

"Blood pressure is low," one of the nurses called across the bed. "Zayn, when's the last time you ate?" she asked, flipping intently through his chart. 

"I...not really today. Just a bit last night, sort of..." 

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Your blood pressure is way down, which accounts for the near-fainting episode, but you also feel a little feverish. It's probably nothing, but I'm going to send a doctor down to make sure your wounds are healing OK," she said briskly. 

"They told me he'd had lunch," the physio volunteered, looking defensive. 

"Yeah, well next time, make sure they've actually eaten it," the nurse sniped. "Last thing we need is a celebrity lawsuit." 

Zayn blanched, chewing his lower lip in frustration, desperately wishing they'd all just fuck off and leave him and alone. He'd have said something, but it all just felt like too much effort. The humiliation at being held up as such a weak pathetic creature for all the world to see was a million times worse than his worst moments at bootcamp, or even live TV rounds on X-Factor. At least there had been four other people to absorb the attention. As a solo act, he was seriously flopping. 

Lying there waiting for the doctor to arrive, he felt his phone pulse with a WhatsApp notification. "Yo man," the message read. "Just chilling out on the golf course, beautiful sunshine today. Hope you're doing good, we're all waiting for you to be back on your feet and with us in rehearsals again - not the same without our Bradford bad boi! Niall. P.S Saving you some Nando's every time we visit. Ya better get your ass back soon, or it's gonna get pretty mouldy!

In spite of himself, Zayn couldn't help but chuckle. Typical Niall, always full of positivity. He didn't even want to think what his Irish bandmate would think if he saw him right now, at the point of collapse after just a few steps. You wouldn't catch Niall landing himself in hospital because of some stupid diet. But then he was so naturally thin and attractive, it's not like he'd ever have got in this situation in the first place.

Unable to formulate an appropriately cheerful reply, Zayn turned the phone over and swallowed thickly, noting an unpleasant sting at the back of his throat. Just what he needed. No matter what, he'd do anything to get his freedom back, and if he had to choke down their sodding yogurts to do it, then so be it. He brightened up as he reflected that he could always burn the calories off again once he was feeling better.


	11. Desert heat

The sky was so much bigger out in the desert. Sometimes, he’d just sit doing nothing and watch the sunset, imagining he could hear the ‘ping’ as it finally sunk into the vast horizon.

Time seemed to move differently here too. He’d been banned from communicating with the outside world on arrival - and without the constant drip feed of information, alerts and distractions from his iPhone, there was a lot more of it to fill.

Regardless of how long they felt, the days were marching on. In three weeks, he’d be expected to rejoin the real world. The cast and frame were gone, but he’d be on crutches for a while yet.

Going to the local private hospital they’d transferred him to last week for the removal had been yet another sober reality check. The nurse on duty had greeted him warmly, as though they’d talked before. And they had - the first week he’d been sent down to Arizona. He’d just been so ill, his brain had blanked the whole thing. He wondered how many other things he'd missed over those last few breathless months.

Although there were still daily aches and pains, in himself, Zayn felt stronger. It felt like he’d slept more in the past few weeks than he had in his life - catching up on a debt accumulated from hundreds of nights spent staring at hotel ceilings. 

Of course all this came with a double edged sword. Feeling better, feeling the dizziness and constant chills abating, were all signs that he was gaining weight back. But if he couldn't attain the BMI they wanted, then he'd be locked up here forever - and, as his mood picked up, that was starting to feel like a more daunting prospect.

They’d advised against paying too much attention to the numbers, and he deliberately turned his back every time they weighed him - it was too hard to see. He wasn’t sure he’d ever just be able to step on the scales without triggering the self-destruct switch. 

Therapy had been so difficult at first, and a lot of it in those early days had been a steady chiseling away at the layers of protection he'd so carefully built up around himself. It had been a long time before he was able to get through a session without emerging a broken, sobbing mess. However in time, something seemed to click into place. The antidepressants they had him on may have also had a little to do with it - but deep down, Zayn sensed a kind of seismic realignment taking place. 

Looking back, with his counsellor’s help, he realised that he’d been depressed for a while - long before that gate had come down in his mind. Of course, it wasn’t just as simple as that. Lots of people get depressed. But only a tiny fraction of those end up starving themselves to the edge of a heart attack.

Even the people at the ranch couldn’t tell him why he’d chosen food as his weapon of choice. Whether it was a poor genetic card, the pressure of fame, or just a horrible chain reaction, the result was the same: An alchemic reaction had taken place in his brain, and the controlling monster it had spawned had feasted on the chemical effects of starvation - growing stronger as he withered away. 

It was still hard for Zayn to accept to himself that he’d been starving himself. To him, even a sandwich still felt like a binge. Let alone a sandwich augmented with a series of snacks, a cooked breakfast, and enormous helping of whatever was for dinner. No matter how many times they drilled it in that it was ‘normal’, he still couldn’t register that this applied to him.

The first few weeks of refeeding had felt gentle. At that point, they’d watched him like a hawk. It had been utterly terrifying facing those first few banned items. The milk, the bread, and worse of all, fat laden cheese.

His brain had screamed at him as he stared at his plate. What are you doing? Don’t touch that! Every bite was torture, at first, and as he’d quickly learnt, if he didn’t finish in half and hour, he’d be forced to endure the whole unpleasant ritual all over again. And for every small victory, the expectations only piled up ever higher.

Zayn had wanted to hide in his room after eating, feeling his stomach ache uncomfortably as it slowly adjusted to this new regime. Unfortunately, right after meals, ‘fun’ activities were mandatory - heavily supervised of course.

Blessedly, his mother had packed him a suitcase full of baggy shorts to pull over the cast. It would have been agony seeing the start of a pouch forming over the waistband of his skinny jeans. All the weight seemed to be settling up home squarely around his abdomen.

They’d assured him this was normal - that the fat would redistribute over time, but it didn’t stop him panicking. Every night, he’d lie in bed, grabbing the newly emerging soft covering of flesh, imagining what the papers would say when he emerged for the first time with a massive gut.

There had been one bright spot that week though. Although phones and internet were off limits, visits were sanctioned, once a week, with reason. Of course, he hadn’t expected anyone to bother - especially with his loved ones thousands of miles away. So he was shocked when last Sunday, as he lay on his bed, absently flicking through a package of comics his cousin had mailed across, there was a light tap on his door. He sighed wearily. He never thought he'd miss being able to lock his room so much before coming here. 

“Your friends are waiting to see you Zayn,” a young nurse told him, smiling encouragingly. “Aren’t you coming out?”

“I didn’t know anyone was coming,” he replied, confused.

“Ah, well they phoned ahead and checked it was OK. You must have forgot to check the list of visitors this week,” she said, a look of understanding dawning in her eyes.

“I guess I’ll come now then,” he mumbled. Damn, damn, damn. He looked a mess. He was bloated, his hair had taken on a life of its own, and he was sure his face was puffed out beyond recognition. But there was no time to do anything about it now, and if they’d come this far, it would be pretty awful to refuse to see them now.

He knew Louis was there before he saw him. He could hear him cackling wildly at something, in that over-enthusiastic way he did when something made him nervous. Zayn felt his pulse escalating has he stepped into the discrete lounge, designed for guests, to where a familiar pair of boys sat waiting for him.

“Vas happening,” he deadpanned, going for the ironic route.

“Hey man! Er, we were in the area, so we thought we’d pop in and say hi,” said Harry, who had his legs up on the polished coffee table, apparently well at home. “You know, ‘cus we’ll be back to work as soon as you’re in London. Thought it might be nice to chill on your ranch for a bit.”

“You look really great man,” said Louis. “Really. This sunshine must be doing something for you.”

“Yeah, well you know, that’s what rehab is all about...sunbathing...and that,” he joked, noticing that both boys subtly cringed at the acknowledgement that, no, this wasn’t just a nice health clinic. “Let’s go on a tour, seeing as you’ve come all this way,” he suggested, figuring a walk - albeit a slow, hobbling one on his part - would be less awkward than sitting in this room, groping for conversation. It had been so long since he’d had a normal non-therapy conversation.

It had turned into an oddly pleasant day in the end, given the circumstances. Louis and Harry had entertained him with stories of Niall and Liams’ exploits in London - Liam was once again banned from using his own Twitter account, after one post-nightclub rant - and Niall was rumoured to be dating a supermodel. It was a total fabrication of course, but they strongly suspected he would have liked it to be true - if only she wasn’t three inches taller than him. 

Harry explained that Liam and Niall wanted to come across as well, but Harry had been sent alone to LA to do some PR for a month, while the others handled interviews UK. Louis had followed him out as soon as he’d been given a weekend off. 

“But”, said Harry proudly, “I put my foot down yesterday. They wanted me to have dinner with this reality TV...so I took her to a gay bar,” he grinned wickedly. “Don’t think she’ll be calling me back somehow.”

“Yeah - we realised - with all the stuff that happened with you, we have to be a bit firmer. It could have so easily been one of us that ended up...you know...going a bit off the rails. They may manage our careers, but we need some control in our lives. I’m not letting anyone tell me what I can and can’t do outside work anymore...well, you know, within reason,” said Louis defiantly.

Harry smiled at him fondly. “We’ve been getting reports about how you’ve been doing you know,” he said, turning to Zayn. “It’s awesome man, what you’ve done here. Actually,” he paused, scratching his nose thoughtfully, “I’ve been inspired by you a bit. Haven’t been out drinking for over a month now. I’ve been a total boring arse.”

“Nah, you’ve just stopped sicking up on the carpet,” laughed Louis. “The flat’s been so much cleaner this time around.”

Zayn wanted to ask more, but he sensed that the pair didn’t really want to go into their current living arrangements. They’d always been secretive about that kind of thing. Louis was coy too when Zayn asked him about Eleanor, saying that the pair were taking some time apart. 

It had been Louis who suggested they take lunch outside, saving a lot of potential awkwardness. Being watched by the nurses was one thing, but by his friends was totally embarrassing. It had been so long since Zayn had just sat and relaxed with anyone over a meal. Louis had finished his in about five seconds, and provided a welcome distraction by arsing around with a football they’d found on their walk. 

Eventually, Zayn finished his food. He hadn’t really enjoyed it, but seeing how alive and healthy his friends look made him eager to join them for the first time. And if mechanically sticking to his horrible diet plan, trusting the nutritionists that his body would adjust, and trying to ignore his swelling body was the way to do it, that was how it would have to be. 

When it was time for Louis and Harry to go, Zayn noticed that Harry gave him an extra tight squeeze, pausing to rest his hands over his spine for some reason. “I miss you man. Hurry up and come home. So we can leave it again,” he joked.

“You really do look great you know,” said Louis thoughtfully. “Like, you’re not back entirely…What? It’s true!” he cried, as Harry jabbed him in the ribs in exasperation, “but...as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted…you almost look like our Zayn again.” 

He’d been hearing how ‘healthy’ he was starting to look for the past week ago, but, as he waved his friends off, this was the first time, he appreciated the compliment. Watching the twosomes’ mismatched silhouettes shrink into the horizon, he wanted to run and join them, eager for the first time in so long to dive into that big world, and all it held. 

Wait a second. Were they holding hands? Nah. Must have been a trick of the light, he thought, shaking his head in amusement as he turned to go back inside, his mood only dipping slightly when he thought about the meal waiting for him there.


	12. You Can Never Go Back

"The wheels on the bus go round and round. Round and round. Round and fucking round," Niall sang tonelessly, drumming his hands on the table."Arghhh, are we nearly there yet? I'm so bored it's unreal."

"Cheer up leprechaun. Only nine hours to go," Zayn replied, pinging his friend on the forehead as it slumped forward in despair. Liam, who was seated beside him, gave a low moan, and slammed his head into his hands.

"Why? Why did there have to be a hurricane the day we had to take a flight?" he groaned. "As though we weren't sleep deprived enough. Now we're stuck on this deathride instead. Bloody fantastic." Nobody said anything. The only sound was rain hammering against the windows, driven by screaming winds.

Privately, Zayn had wondered if it was even safe to be on the road, but not wanting to add to the prickly atmosphere, had kept his thoughts to himself. They had to be at that stadium tomorrow evening, and nothing would stand in the tour manager's way.

Opposite him, Louis sat morosely shuffling playing cards. As he had every night for the past few weeks, Harry had taken himself off to his bunk alone, apparently preferring to Skype for hours on end than socialise with the others.

Zayn shifted against the pleather couch, trying to get comfy, and turned back to his book.

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold."

He felt his eyes well up. He'd been re-reading the full Lord of the Rings these past few weeks, and that scene cut a little too close to the bone. Furtively he rubbed his eyes, quickly glancing around the bus to make sure nobody had noticed

Something had taken hold of them all recently. Or maybe it was the distance that had helped put things into perspective. The boys just seemed...broken. There was no other way to put it.

You wouldn't know it from watching them perform. As ever, they were a well oiled machine, serving up loud, crazy gigs night after night, as close and in sync as any brothers.

His feet (well, crutches) had barely touched the ground before he was back rehearsing for the next round of concerts. It was their biggest to date, which meant even more pressure, longer hours of practice, and endless PR activities to sell all the tickets that fed the machine.

But the cracks behind the bubblegum pop facade were starting to ripple through, like the fissures in an ice block before it falls apart.

Nobody had blamed Zayn for what happened. If anything, they all joked that they'd been glad of the rest. But there was no denying though that Modest had locked its attentions down on them - to the benefit of no-one.

Three months ago, he'd been given the nod to start working out properly again. At Liam's suggestion, he'd started having daily training sessions with his bandmate, focusing on boxing and weights.

Of course, he'd never be comfortable doing what Liam did, downing all those disgusting protein shakes and actively pumping himself up - it was hard enough just to take in the minimum amount of calories every day. But...and maybe he was projecting...sometimes, Zayn thought Liam's attitude to exercise wasn't exactly healthy either.

He'd noticed how Liam got like a caged animal before a workout - and even when he'd had that bad cold last week, he'd powered on through, even tacking an extra twenty minutes to compensate for not being able to work as hard as usual. By the end of the workout, he'd been actually shivering, his eyes red, and his entire body dripping in cold sweat.

But he was probably just jealous, he thought. When he met fans, he couldn't help but fixate on the super skinny ones. The ones that seemed just a touch too brittle, their eyes just a little too large for their faces. They all made him feel disgustingly fat, and so undisciplined and lazy.

Today, it would be six months since he'd left the clinic. To all intents and purposes, he supposed he was fully recovered. Healthy BMI, three meals a day, no more hiding, no more secrets. Well, not so many, anyway.

And yet...every day, every god damn day, he missed it all so much. The rituals, the control, the dizzy elation that came from running on zero and pushing himself to the limits. Now everything was flat. No highs, no lows...just middling on through the daily grind.

This body too - it felt unfamiliar. Saggy and puffy. As everyone had warned him, the scales had continued to tick upwards, though it was easily dismissed to any rude interviewers as being a side-effect of his injury recuperation.

He felt like every day people were eying him up and down, analysing every angle - even the cosy middle aged stylist they were now working with, who smiled nicely, but tutted nonetheless with every extra inch she had to add to his wardrobe in those first few months.

When it came to managing his daily intake, all eyes really were on him, and not a week went by when he wasn't dragged aside for 'a little chat.' Perhaps if there hadn't been such suffocating micromanagement, he would have had a better chance of putting what he'd learnt during therapy into practice. But there was little hope of that with all the stress.

The short Christmas leave they'd been given had offered little respite. His relatives had all been so quick to point out how much better he looked 'with a bit of meat' on Boxing Day. His grandma had grabbed the thickening flesh on his arm approvingly, smiling at her healthy strapping grandson.

Zayn's cousin, who'd previously worn bigger jeans than him, had gone through a massive growth spurt, and now strutted around with trousers that hung off his hips. "Look at that, he's even skinnier than you!" his uncle had chuckled, guffawing Zayn conspiratorily.

He'd smiled wanly, feeling extra guilty about all that cake he'd eaten at lunch, then crammed some crisps in his mouth defiantly, to make it look like he thought it was funny too.

That night, he'd downed a glass of salt water in an attempt to force his body to purge all the junk food up, reasoning that he wouldn't be back at work for another month or so really. Though he knew most of the calories were already in his system, it had made him feel better somehow, just to have that release.

And after that, it hadn't really seemed like such a bad thing to just throw up occasionally. Just went he'd gone over what felt safe, or when he'd indulged in a few too many sweets or crisps to be quite comfortable.

It's not like he even lost any weight this way, really. Maybe the odd pound or two, but nothing like the magical freefall he'd been in before.

Of course, the purging had mostly came to a stop when break came to an end. At most, it was two or three times a week that he'd succumb now. And even then, he was careful - only doing it after the occasional stress induced post-concert binge, or when he felt like he'd gone a bit far at dinner. It wasn't like he did it after every meal or anything dangerous like that.

Once he thought Niall caught him, but he couldn't be sure. Niall was so sensitive in nature that he went out of his way to avoid confrontation. Whenever anyone kicked off in private, which was fairly often, he'd clam up, or take himself off to a corner with a guitar.

He'd taken to spending more time with the support act recently, even though they were a few years younger than the others - probably just to get a bit of peace, Zayn suspected.

For the millionth time that evening, he rubbed his hand across his jawline. He'd noticed a bit of a double chin creeping in the other day, and it was playing on his mind. Could he get away with cutting back a bit on his carefully measured food intake? Just subtly?

It was pitch black outside now, and they seemed to have driven through the worst of the storm. One by one, the others had slunk moodily off to bed, leaving Zayn to read alone. Sighing, he decided that maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to at least try and get some rest.

"Do you ever sleep mate?" a quiet voice pitched up from the bunk below as he climbed up the ladder.

"Oh, didn't realise you were up Louis. Was I being too noisy?" Zayn asked, quickly shoving away his book. Harry had been teasing him about his 'Hobbit fetish' this week - and the last thing he wanted to do was give him further ammunition.

"Nah, I've been up for a bit actually. Just thinking about...things," Louis replied, slowly pulling himself in to a standing position and arching his back. Since the tour had begun, he'd lost a lot of weight. He'd let his hair grow out into a shaggy indie style, and dark stubble shaded his newly sharpened jawline.

Modest had been giving Harry and Louis a lot of phone calls lately. They never discussed what was said, but, from the start, everyone had been told that the pair were, under no circumstances allowed to sit together in interviews for this tour. Nor could they be put together for any small group activities. And forget about spontaneous hugs or touching on stage.

It had leaked out that they were living together again, and the gossips were working on overtime. Add that to Liam's Twitter ranting and the huge cover-up around Zayn's injury, and there was an explosive PR bomb ready to blow. The execs were on full 'damage control mode' - made abundantly clear when they'd all been given a group warning on day one of rehearsals.

"When you're on break, your time is your own - but on tour, you're all being watched 24/7...and if you can't moderate yourselves to behave in a way we deem acceptable, we'll just have to intervene. And believe me...you won't like it. Got it?" the harassed looking man in a suit had barked.

Nobody had even bothered to reply, simply shrugging it off, and collectively trooped out for a game of basketball - but since that day, nobody was quite as natural or enthusiastic as before, somehow. Harry had disappeared later that day, and when he came back, he'd been unusually short with Louis.

Clearly someone had decided to given him his own private lecture, though nobody had any inkling what it was about until much later.

The awards ceremony last month had been so strange. As the groups' name was called, Niall, Liam, Louis and Zayn had leapt to their feet spontaneously and embraced each other one by one. Harry on the other hand had hung back, turning uncertainly to the management aide who'd been strategically positioned next to him.

The man rolled his eyes, and made a small hand shake gesture at Harry, who'd quickly pasted an enthusiastic expression across his face, before lunging forward to clap everyone on the back, pausing for a second as though composing himself when he got to Louis, before offering him the most apathetic of high fives.

Of course, the whole exchange was caught on camera, and the majority of people assumed that the two had just had some sort of massive fight.

You couldn't blame them really. Louis had gone home early that evening, and Harry had stayed out all night, for the first time in months. It wasn't long before that one-off turned into a regular occurrence.

It was on one of these nights that Harry had turned up at Zayn's door, white faced and crying. It had been a good while Zayn could do to get him to calm down enough for what he was saying to make any sense.

"They've put a bodyguard outside his door and mine...every night now....We can't...I'm not allowed...they say it's too dangerous, someone might see. And they'd...Louis....they'd fire...They threatened..." he broke off, looking panicked.

"It's too much Zayn. I'm not strong enough to do this anymore..." he'd sobbed, the cries violently wrenching through his body as though his heart was breaking with every shudder.

Eventually he'd passed out on Zayn's sofa, creeping out some time before dawn, and they'd said no more about it. The next day, Harry had acted like everything was normal, matter closed, like it had all been a dream.

Watching his two friends in such obvious pain was awful. In spite of all their bravado about standing up for themselves, in the cold light of day, that was far easier said than done. They were just five young men, not even old enough to be college graduates, against an army of seasoned corporate suits, all hungry for a slice of the One Direction pie.

"Long tour, hey man?" Zayn said quietly to Louis.

"Yeah, yeah, you could say that," sniffed Louis, leaning against the opposite bunk. Suddenly, a hand appeared from the curtained bunk below, and clamped itself around Louis' skinny ankle. He sank down to a squat, and peered through the curtains.

"You're awake too, are you Curly?" he said, sadly.

Harry didn't reply. Without warning, he yanked Louis into his bunk, hurriedly wrapping his arms around the crouching boy in a full body embrace, like a young monkey. The two stayed like that for a long moment, Louis resting his chin on Harry's comfortable shoulder.

Zayn started scrolling through Facebook, feeling awkward about witnessing such an emotionally charged scene, when his phone suddenly buzzed.

Oddly, it was from Harry. "Come into my bunk, and shut your and Louis' curtains so it looks like you're both asleep." Oh Christ, Zayn thought, desperately hoping this wasn't some new kink he'd had picked up. The band was enough of a fan fiction cliche as it was.


End file.
